


imagine knowing me

by onceuponamoon



Series: pas de cheval [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kent Parson is still a softie, M/M, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4974505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent is genuinely surprised when he’s leaving the rink after the media shitshow, heading out to his car, and sees – “Eric, right?  Bittle.”  His haircut’s different, and he’s looking a little leaner, but Kent recognizes the guy (he’d cried on, embarrassingly enough, all those years ago) just the same.  </p><p>“It’s, uh,” Bittle uncrosses his arms and huffs a little laugh like he’s just remembered a funny inside joke, “Zimmermann now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Panic! at the Disco's "Pas de Cheval." Songs mentioned therein are T.I.'s "Whatever You Like" and Beyoncé's "Drunk in Love." Takes place post-comic. 
> 
> Hover over the text for Quebecois French translations (that were done via google, google translate, and iTranslate -- none of which are as reliable as an actual Quebecois speaker, so if mistakes are pointed out, I would be very grateful). 
> 
> Unbeta'd.
> 
>  **ETA** : Thank you so much to [randomoranges](http://randomoranges.tumblr.com) for the Quebecois help!! You're the real MVP. I'm forever in ur debt, boo.

Though he’s lost count of how many times they’ve faced off against each other on the ice, each time is every bit as intense as the last. To say the least. Kent’s looking at Jack instead of the puck and that’s probably why his stick clacks against the ice after too long of a pause following Jack’s. It results in Kent chasing Jack down the ice since his lane is left open from his fumbling, and _wow_ , Kent has missed this.

People used to write stories about the way they played together. Now, he wonders if they’ll write about how they play _against_ each other. 

It’s like the clash of thunder, gods furious and heavens shuddering, both of them racing each other down, checking each other like they’ve got something to settle off the ice (which maybe they _do_ ), and taking hard shots on each other’s goalies. They block each other up in a way that makes Kent realize he’s trying to play one-on-one with his old friend and, with the C on his chest, he really needs to get his mind straight. Second period is a lot smoother, like Jack realizes that Kent’s gotten his head out of his ass and now they can just _play_. Because that’s all Jack has ever wanted. They’ve both always lived and breathed hockey, but with Jack it’s different. Something more – a little desperate, maybe.

Kent loves it. Loves _him_.

He’s (almost) not even mad when his fuckup in the first period cost the Aces the W in regulation on home turf, because it felt _so good_ to be on the ice with Jack again. Even if they weren’t doing those no-look one-timers together. Kent makes sure to smile at him and mouth, “Good game,” from across the boards and he’s almost positive that Jack smiles back.

*

Kent is genuinely surprised when he’s leaving the rink after the media shitshow, heading out to his car, and sees – “Eric, right? Bittle.” His haircut’s different, and he’s looking a little leaner, but Kent recognizes the guy (he’d cried on, embarrassingly enough, all those years ago) just the same.

“It’s, uh,” Bittle uncrosses his arms and huffs a little laugh like he’s just remembered a funny inside joke, “Zimmermann now.”

Though he knows the breathless, gutted feeling is probably showing clearly on his face, Kent can’t help the, “Oh,” he says softly, because _it hurts_ , and then, “Congratulations, Eric. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go home and pass out.”

There’s a crest of blush over the kid’s cheeks and it’s familiar in a way that Kent isn’t quite expecting. His stomach lurches and he fiddles with the brim of his hat, because this little guy won’t move from the driver side door. 

“Flashiest car in the lot, Parson. Can’t say I was expectin’ anything else. Not after that Porsche you drove to Samwell.”

It’s not – “It’s not _that_ flashy…” Kent grouses. Yeah, it’s relatively new and nice, but. Kent’s worked really hard over the years, and honestly. A car like this is pretty modest compared to what some of the other guys in the league own.

“Uh huh.” Bittle – _Eric_ – has his arms crossed and his hip cocked. Again, it’s weirdly familiar and Kent thinks that he could. He could get used to it. If he weren’t Jack’s. (If, as fucking cheesy as it sounds, his own heart didn’t belong to Jack.)

“So, uh. What do you need, then?”

Finally, the kid uncrosses his arms. It does wonders to open up his expression and Kent relaxes enough to realize that he’d been way too tense, like he’d been subconsciously worried about being mugged or something. He internally rolls his eyes at the thought, because he could totally take this dude. He’s a professional hockey player. He’s knocked out a guy’s teeth before. 

“Wanted to talk to you,” Bit—Eric says. His mouth curves into a small smile and then he’s sauntering closer, and maybe it’d be called swagger if he were bigger, but mostly it makes Kent think about the teasing swing of the hips most girls like to try on him in bars and clubs. It’s – disconcerting.

“About what?” Kent asks, voice weirdly hoarse. 

“Marriage, actually.” Eric comes to a stop right in from of Kent, his smile more of a smirk than anything, but his raised brow dilutes the intimidation factor. In fact, it makes him look…wholesome, like he’s coming in for a hug, or something. Which doesn’t make any sense, but –

Eric’s arms close around Kent’s middle and Kent’s breath feels like it gets punched out of him. It’s this wrecked shudder (that makes him wonder when the last time he got an actual _hug_ ) and then he’s wrapping his arms around Eric’s neck, tilting his head to rest his cheek on top of Eric’s head. The hug is – surprisingly nice. 

“I…”

“Shh,” Eric says. Then he huffs a laugh and, even though it’s seventy something degrees outside, Eric’s breath warms the clammy skin of Kent’s throat. “Hug, first. Talk in a minute.” 

Kent sighs and lets himself relax into it, his muscles melting in a way that he can’t truly achieve unless he’s in a hot tub. Or had a particularly satisfying orgasm. 

Very slowly, Kent feels Eric pull away. “Better?” Eric asks.

After another sigh, Kent answers, “Yeah. I, uh.”

“I know.” Eric has a glint in his eye that says that maybe he really does. It’s more than enough for Kent to give him a wry smile in response. “So, like I said. Marriage.” He huffs a laugh. “Well. Elopement, really. Jack, he…he proposed a while ago. We’ve been engaged for a little over a year, now, but – Vegas. We thought, why not, ya know?” 

“Did you –” Kent swallows and it tastes quite a bit like regret. Time lost and not remotely forgotten. “When did you two get married?” 

Eric can’t quite quell his smile. “Last night.” 

“Oh.”

“My mama’s gonna kill me. So’s Bob. An’ all our friends, but –” This time Eric lets himself _really_ smile and Kent’s a little blown away by just how dazzling it is, even in the dark, even with nothing but the orangey glow of the parking lot’s buzzing streetlamps. “I don’t even care!”

Kent can’t help his own smile; Eric’s sheer joy is kind of infectious, even though Kent kind of wants to crawl beneath the covers on his bed and just breathe for a bit. “So you’re – both of you are happy?”

“Mostly,” Eric answers, “I mean. We’ve always felt like we’re missin’ a little somethin’.”

“…Wha –” Kent clears his throat, trying not to hope, and starts over. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s _you_ , Parson.” Eric gives a little shrug, like it’s just that simple. “Jack’s – he’s told me a lot. About you, about his dad, about…everything, really. That’s the only way I was able to say yes. Because he told me the truth.”

Averting his eyes, Kent smiles at nothing and tries not to seem like he’s hoping for more than he’s allowed. But he _is_. He wants. He wants Jack, and if – if it’s a possibility, then he’ll do whatever it takes. He’s spent years working on it, sending texts every now and then just to check in and see that he’s alright, keeping tabs on the draft, then stats. Kent’s always done it, but. It’s felt different since. Since that night in his car with Bittle. Eric.

It’s not like Kent hasn’t…connected with people since then. He’s had a few steady girlfriends that he thought, maybe, just _maybe_ , not for certain, he’d thought of a future and kids and the whole shebang, but it’d been impossible. Every single time, he’d wake up with someone else in his bed, and they didn’t breathe in the right pattern or blink up with sleepy, heavy eyes and a tired smile, Kent would just. He’d tell them it wouldn’t work out. Because they weren’t Jack. He’d look at them and compare them and just. Kent wouldn’t feel right, because they’d just be temporary. 

“He said that he’s – you know he forgave you a long time ago, right?” Eric asks, looking far too compassionate for a guy who just married the guy that he _knows_ Kent’s in love with. “He doesn’t – he _loves_ you, Kent.” Eric’s eyes are big and wide, his expression serious and sincere and way more than Kent can handle right now.

“Why—” Kent swallows. “Why are you telling me this?” Maybe his voice doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels. “Why _now?_ ”

“Because he loves _you_. He loves me and he loves you, and I think that’s somethin’ worth thinkin’ about. Don’t you?” Eric huffs out a little breath and Kent’s pretty sure he doesn’t get what’s going on. The need for an explanation must be clear in the trembling lines of his shoulders, because Eric continues, “I told you I wanted to talk about marriage, eh? I – I’m pretty sure he only wanted to marry me to keep himself from takin’ you down to the Elvis chapel. Which,” Eric waves a hand, “I wouldn’t’ve minded, but – Lord, it’s like Jack, bless his heart, doesn’t think he can have us both.”

Kent…he doesn’t know what to think about that. 

“Alright,” Eric says, eyeing Kent, “I guess you didn’t either.”

Well, _no_ , he didn’t. He didn’t think that.

“Is – do people share? Like that, I mean.” Memories of threesomes (and, a couple of times, moresomes) with Jack swim to the roiling surface of Kent’s mind and he feels hot. Hotter than he should. He might be blushing. “Um.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “Oh, honey. _Yes_. There’s a wonderful thing called polyamory.” Again, Eric reaches out and tugs Kent, who’s maybe a little bit frozen with shock, in for a hug. “I never forgot what you told me. About lovin’ Jack. It didn’t take me that long to figure out that he felt the same way about you. An’ I just want him to be happy, so. I looked into it.

“Yeah, we got married,” Eric says, giving Kent another squeeze before slipping away, his hands resting on Kent’s shoulders, “But to me, marriage is what two people make it. An’ if we say we’d be open to havin’ you as a part of it – part of _us_ – then. Then that’s what it is. That’s what it’ll be.” 

Everything about Eric’s expression shows determination. 

“Does…” Kent begins, unable to wrangle his thoughts into some semblance of order, “Is Jack – what’s –”

“I haven’t talked to Jack yet. I wanted to make sure you were on board first. Or at least had the idea in your head.”

“Oh.” 

Kent doesn’t – if he could. If he could have this – have _Jack_ – and whatever Eric’s willing to give, then. Yeah. _Yeah_. He’d be on board.

“Jack mentioned…he talked about how you’d always bring up kids. Now, I don’t know about _soon_ or anything but. I like the idea. Jack as a dad.” His eyes get kind of faraway and a smile creeps onto his mouth. It makes Kent wonder if he looked like that back when it was just him and Jack. “I think he’d be a good dad.”

“That’s what I always said,” Kent says, sounding more enthused than he’d meant, but, well. It’s true. He’s starting to tremble a little bit. The weight of his bag still heavy on his shoulder and against his thigh, the soreness from the game, the adrenaline from the conversation – it’s all catching up on Kent a lot faster than he’d thought. “I should probably get going. We’ve got early skate and then I’m supposed to meet with the managers, so. Can I have your number, maybe?”

“’Course,” Eric says. He whips out his phone between one blink and the next and – Kent’s pretty sure he stuffed his somewhere in his bag, not really wanting to deal with texts from friends and family commenting on the game. Eric seems to catch the look on Kent’s face, because he just smiles, swaps his phone for a sharpie out of his back pocket and says, “Gimme your hand.” As he scrawls his number in neat little digits on the back of Kent’s hand, he goes on to explain, “Jack always forgets that he’s a hockey star and never seems to have a sharpie with him. I’ve generally kept one on me since his first game.”

Kent hums, lulled a bit by the rhythm of Eric’s accent and the gentle caress of the marker on his skin. Once he’s finished, Eric takes Kent’s hand, raises it to his mouth and blows a steady stream of air across it. His brows are furrowed like he’s focused and Kent wonders if he’d look the same way between Kent’s thighs, maybe on his knees, maybe sprawled out on his belly, taking his time to make Kent _want_ it. 

Clearing his throat, Kent says, “Thanks.” His voice still comes out a little rough, but he figures that – hell, if they’re going to be in a threesome, a polyamorous relationship, then he’d better get used to this. “I’ll send you a text once I find it. Do – are you staying at a hotel tonight or are you flying out with the team? I know they’re supposed to play San José in two days.”

“Nah, I’m stayin’ in the Wynn.”

“If you want, I can give you a ride over there,” Kent offers. There might be a smidgen of hope in his voice, because he feels like he needs to prolong this, to make it just a little more tangible so that the possibility of Jack is more than just a dream.

Eric cocks an eyebrow, hand on his hip. “Are you tellin’ me that you wanna drive down the Strip after you’ve just played a game?”

Kent shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

After eyeing him for a second, Eric concedes and walks around to the other side of the Ferrari. “Y’know Jack drives a Porsche; I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.”

A bark of laughter rings out in the parking lot as Kent unlocks the doors, and it takes a moment for him to remember to get in. When they were younger, Jack had tried to feign an interest in cars because Kent had loved Bob’s collection. Jack never really cared about them, but anytime they’d all be in the car together, Kent would ask questions and Jack would perk up a bit, listening because his dad was showing interest in something other than hockey. He’d always said that he’d buy a Porsche when asked, but Kent knew he didn’t really care. As long as it had a motor and four wheels, Kent’s pretty sure that Jack would be content to drive it.

“What are you smilin’ about?” Eric asks.

Kent relays the story, attention divided between focusing on pulling out of the lot into the flow of traffic and taking in Eric’s expressions. It’s nice to be able to share the memories and Kent only falters for a second when he thinks, with _Jack’s husband_. It’s a little strange, but. Kent thinks he could probably get used to it, if given some time. 

The traffic slows the further down the Strip Kent drives, detoured by a wreck at one point and then drunken gamblers stumbling out of casinos into taxis by another. Eric keeps up a constant stream of questions and a few Jack-stories of his own, edging into fond amusement after some mutual commiserating over some of his dumb habits. 

As Kent pulls up to the hotel, Eric gets a little quiet, biting his lip with his hand on the door handle. 

If it were one of his teammates, Kent would be tossing out a chirp, but. It’s Eric. And he’s. Well, he might, potentially, be a teammate too, just on a whole different plane. “I’ll text you,” Kent says while Eric’s still hesitating, holding up traffic behind them, “Promise.”

Kent sees the steely determination, multicolored from all the neon, just before Eric leans across the center console and presses a kiss to Kent’s cheek. “You’d better,” he says.

Even though he gets yelled at by a traffic cop to move along, Kent watches until Eric disappears through the revolving hotel doors.

*

Kent remembers he’s supposed to text Eric the moment he goes to wash his face and sees the number on his hand. He mutters a heartfelt, “ _Shit_ ,” and gives the smudged number a mournful look. It takes a couple of misses before he finally hits the right number, breathing a sigh of relief when he gets the, **took ya long enough ;)**

“Oh, thank god,” Kent mutters to himself. He takes a screenshot of the ten minute conversation he had with someone named Edgar and then texts, _**it wasn’t for lack of trying.**_

**Omg you switched to French lol. Kent that’s just mean.**

_**I was running out of options! Anyway, I wanted to say…thanks? I guess.** _

**For what?**

As Kent takes a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts and will away his exhaustion, Princess hops up onto the bed and takes her usual spot on Kent’s pillow. KP follows not too far behind and mewls before plopping down on Kent’s chest, blocking the view of his phone. Huffing a laugh, Kent cards his fingers through her fur before lifting her onto the pillow beside Princess. 

_**Giving me a chance.** _

**Oh, hon…I could tell, just watching you on the ice tonight with Jack. You’ve forgiven yourself. But now it’s time to treat yourself like it. You deserve the things you want.**

Kent feels…warm. And sleepy. He’s eighty percent sure it’s not just from the cats. His breath hitches all weirdly and he thinks he’s had enough of today’s emotions; he’s completely drained _and_ he still has to rewatch his shifts to see where all he’d fucked up. He scrubs a hand over his face and then scritches under KP’s chin, just to get her to purr again. 

_**I think I’m gonna crash. Goodnight, Eric..** _

**Goodnight, Kent. I’m really lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know ya.**

**_:)_ **

*

First thing in the morning, Kent scrolls through his phone just to make sure what happened the night before…actually happened. It would suck to think he actually had a chance and instead he had, like, a concussion or something. (It’d happened once before. Minus Bittle – Eric – but _still_.) He has the urge to text Eric, just to see if – well.

Kent shoves a hand through his hair and sits up, dislodging KP from where she’s curled up in a fuzzy gray ball on his bare chest. He pets her as she stretches and he then shoves the covers off, tugs on some clothes, and heads downstairs to his home gym. (Kent won’t admit that he built this house with Jack and their family in mind, because that would be pathetic. No less true, but still pathetic.) 

Once he’s logged a few miles and done a few sets of reps, it’s a more reasonable hour and Kent doesn’t feel bad texting Eric. 

Really, he’s kind of surprised he’s managed to wait this long.

All he sends, though, is a picture of his cats sitting in the windowsill, looking out at the backyard. The caption says, _**Princess and KP say good morning :)**_

Kent tries to go on about breakfast (three eggs, some toast, a bottle of Powerade) without obsessively checking his phone, but he ends up almost braining himself on the counter when his phone chimes and he rushes to check it without noticing that KP’s underfoot. Only, instead of a response from Eric, it’s a text from Jack saying, **PRINCESS!**

Laughing, heart pounding, Kent sends back, _**I’m pretty sure she’s immortal, bro.**_

Then a response from Eric comes in: **Forwarded that to Jack. Goodness, they’re just the cutest things! My flight to Providence is in two hours. Eep. I’ll be sure to text you once I’m home!**

After heading to optional skate, taping his stick just the way he likes, and slamming a few pucks into the net, Kent feels a little bit better. Less lonely. Hockey’s always kind of done that for him. Being around the team helps a whole helluva lot too. Jeff and Rader chirp him the whole time and take him to lunch afterwards, prodding him with questions like, “Who sunk to your level last night? I mean really. That’s just –” Kent socks Jeff in the shoulder and then starts in on ideas for plays for tomorrow’s game just to get them off his case.

While he’s driving home, Kent’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he’s tempted to check but he’d really rather not have to pay another ticket, so he quells the urge by speeding just a little bit.

Kent had showered at the practice rink but he’s still feeling a little smelly by the time he’s dropping his keys on the kitchen counter and tugging his phone free from his back pocket. 

It’s from Jack, surprisingly: **Hey, Kenny. Eric just got home and asked me to tell you before he got in the bath. I didn’t know you two were friends.**

And well. He texts, _**Uh, yeah. And thanks for telling me.**_ for lack of anything better to say. He doesn’t want to drop the poly-bomb on Jack without giving Eric a chance to break him in slowly. If that’s still the plan, anyway. He _hopes_ it’s still the plan. But it’s not like he can shoot a text to Eric asking, because it seems like Jack probably has his phone, and Kent has no idea if Eric’s phone is the kind that gives a preview of a text message even when it’s locked. Hell, for all Kent knows, Jack probably knows the passcode. So, yeah. Not safe.

So instead Kent bides his time by feeding his cats and then making a few sandwiches for himself. 

And then he paces.

Because. Should he say something to Jack? It wouldn’t be right to talk hockey when there’s still a month and a half left in the regular season and both of their teams are still pushing to make playoffs. Kent wants to – he wants to _talk_ to Jack. But he doesn’t remember how, at least not if it isn’t about hockey. And asking about his family is probably a no-go too. The marriage is probably something he shouldn’t know about yet, considering Jack’s love of privacy and the fact that Bob, Alicia, and Eric’s parents _don’t even know yet_.

So no.

Really, the only thing that feels safe, that might actually work, is something from way back when. Something happy.

_**Remember that one time we got syrup on Princess and then decided it’d be best to just shave it off instead of trying to wash her?** _

Jack texts back almost immediately. **HAHA oh man, I forgot. Please tell me you have a picture of that.**

Grinning to himself, accepting the challenge, Kent shoots a quick text to his mom, who’s happy enough to snap a semi-blurry picture of the Polaroid without a question. Flopping down on the couch and turning on SportsCenter, Kent forwards the picture to Jack and feels a little bit better about himself.

**HAHA! Poor Princess. Oh, god. Your mom was so pissed.**

Kent snorts. _**Yeah, at me. She always loved you way more than she loved me. I don’t think Princess has forgiven us yet.**_

There’s a recap of last night’s game on, the reports circling mistakes in red and arguing loudly about dumb shit that makes Kent cringe, so he presses random numbers and somehow ends up on some documentary over WWII, which, hey. He’ll watch it. Maybe absorb some knowledge via osmosis. 

**Whatever. You were her precious little Kenny. If she hadn’t thought it was funny she wouldn’t have taken a picture.**

**_Truuuuue._** Kent feels a little bit at a loss. This feels…too easy. Just talking to Jack hasn’t been like this since – since before. _**It was…really nice being on the ice with you. I’ve missed it a lot.**_

Jack doesn’t respond immediately and Kent’s struck with this massive, “Oh,” because Eric’s home, they just got married. They’re probably fucking. Kent tries not to think a despondent, _without me_ , but he thinks it anyway and it kind of hurts. But. There’s also the fact that, at the very least, Eric wants to include him. Eric might actually want him there. And what if…

What if, right now, Eric’s pressing up against Jack as sweet as can be, whispering in his ear about how much he missed him, how badly he wanted him, how terrible it was to be away from him for a whole night? What if Eric is talking about _Kent_?

“Oh, fuck,” Kent whispers. Because that’d be. That’d be _hot_. 

Especially with Eric’s southern drawl, his innocent little face all smirking and delighted. Kent doesn’t know how Jack could resist that at all. Kent, just thinking about it, is squirming on his couch even as the TV blares something about the Soviet Union. He’d be pretty much powerless against that. It makes Kent wonder if Eric takes advantage of that and uses it against Jack. It’d probably work.

Kent wonders if Eric does the whole dirty talk thing at all. He gives off this wholesome vibe, so maybe not. But it’s definitely something to think about. Kent could probably convince Eric to give it a shot if it’s not something he’s thought about.

Just as he’s about to stick a hand down his pants, Kent’s phone buzzes again. It’s been all of twenty minutes which, admittedly, is probably longer than he’d last for reunion-honeymoon sex.

**I’ve missed you, too, Kenny.**

It’s kind of embarrassing how much that simple little sentence means to Kent. It has his heart racing, all fluttery in his chest, and his face splitting in an involuntary grin that threatens to bubble into a laugh. Kent’s never claimed subtlety, but Jack has always seemed to see through each and every attempt that Kent has ever made, like he’s got some kind of Kent-calibrated bullshit detector. Kent always thought that Jack was just incredibly perceptive, almost like the way he is on the ice, but really it’s more that he _knows_ Kent and can see his ulterior motives and true wishes, even when Kent himself might not be so sure.

And for all the teasing and harsh words, Jack has never once cut Kent out of his life for good. 

That has to mean something.

Kent’s phone buzzes and it’s a call from his mother who hesitantly asks if Kent got a chance to talk to Jack. Which means that the news must’ve broken.

“Yeah, mom,” Kent answers after a sigh, “I was talking to him before you called.”

“ _And…are you okay, honey?_ ” Everything about her voice denotes the fact that she’s _known_ all these years and, while it’s a bit mortifying, Kent’s also incredibly grateful. He’d never been quiet about his preferences, but when she’d ask if Kent would ever consider dating seriously and he’d had to explain why each partner wasn’t working out, maybe she knew already that it was because he still wasn’t over Jack. That he’d never be over Jack.

Kent huffs a laugh. “Yeah, mom; I’m great.” Truthfully, he is. He’s probably leagues better than Jack and Eric right now who must be getting an absolute reaming from the franchise, their friends, and parents. “I – I found out last night.”

“ _Oh, Kenny…_ ”

Hope’s bubbling in his chest, though, so Kent can’t really help it when he says, “Hey, no, really. I’m okay. It’s – it’s, uh. I think it’s going to be alright.” Something about his tone must betray the cool calm he’s trying to project because when his mom asks what that means, he kind of blurts, “He – his husband. They want to date me. I think.”

She’s understandably confused, but Kent resolves to do some research on the whole polyamory thing Eric had mentioned and then send her some links. The phone call ends with a skeptical, “ _Well, as long as you’re happy,_ ” and Kent just grins and says goodbye.

*

It’s a few days before Kent actually hears from Eric again, but he’s mostly busy with trying to coax his team through the push for playoffs than anything, so when the phone call actually comes, Kent’s a little surprised. Mostly about the fact that he’s still alive after apparently having to talk to Bob Zimmermann one-on-one.

“Hey,” Kent answers softly, “How’d it go?”

Eric groans. “ _Been busier’n a moth in a mitten, but my goodness, I’m just glad all the fuss is mostly over. I thought Alicia was going to throttle me when she and Bob came over, but Jack’s happy, so I’m happy too. Well. He’s not too happy about having to give interviews, but he’s mostly used to that by now._ ” He huffs a little laugh. “ _I think Alicia forgave me after a bite of that crème brûlée tart I made._ ”

“Crème brûlée tart, eh?”

“ _Well, it wasn’t perfect by any means, but I already had it in the oven since it was team dinner night. I ended up whippin’ up a couple of batches of cookies for them instead and sent the rest of the tart home with Alicia and Bob._ ”

Kent laughs. “That’ll definitely keep Alicia on your good side. That – oh, and cheesecake works for Bob. Lemon or raspberry. He’d never admit it, but it’s true.”

“ _I’ll definitely have to keep that in mind._ ” When Eric giggles, it’s light and airy, a summer breeze. “ _And what about you? You doin’ alright?_ ”

Nerves inundated with the sudden constriction of questions upon questions, Kent tries to play it cool with a, “Yep,” but something about Eric’s ensuing pause makes him blurt what he’s wondering out into the open. “Is – did you talk to Jack? Or, uh. Ya know.”

There’s the briefest pause before Eric says, “ _Oh, hon, I’m so sorry. With all this mess… I – I haven’t told him explicitly yet. He’s still too focused on the end of the season and all, I think. Besides, I think it might be best if we kinda ease him on into it._ ”

“Okay,” Kent says, breathing just a little easier, “Just. Don’t let him do that thing where he feels guilty and stops talking, eh?”

Laughing, Eric says, “ _I think we’ve gotten past that. Wouldn’t’ve agreed to marry him otherwise._ ”

Again, the thought of it burns Kent more than a little bit, but it helps when he breathes through it, remembering that Eric wants this for them. He’s not a point of contention. Eventually he’s able to say, “Good to know,” without sounding bitter about it. He truly is glad that they’ve worked out communication issues that Kent wonders if he’ll ever be able to get over; maybe, in the long run, it’ll make things easier for all of them. 

“ _Listen,_ ” Eric says, “ _I’m thinkin’ about makin’ some mini pies. Does Jack have your address?_ ”

Kent answers, “He should, yeah,” but doubt nags at him until he goes ahead and gives Eric his address, just in case. Pie technically isn’t in his nutrition plan, but. At least they’re mini ones. Besides, if this is Eric’s particular brand of courting, Kent’s not going to say no. A little while later – and Kent’s not going to _say_ it’s flirting, but it’s definitely flirting – they hang up. 

It’s a game day and that means he needs to nap before heading to the rink to get ready.

Only, the second he starts to feel relaxed enough to drop into sleep, his brain starts whirring with all of these possibilities. Or maybe it’s more that Kent had started to doze off, entering that limbo before a true dream where it’s more that he’s daydreaming and aware of it, but it’s still fuzzy and soft and malleable; either way, it means that dream-Kent’s got two handfuls of Jack Zimmermann’s ass and teeth on his shoulder blades. He wouldn’t ever have thought he’d be into biting, but something about the dream, knowing it’s Eric crowding up behind him, the line of his dick riding Kent’s ass, whispering dirty shit into his skin while dream-Kent shakes and pants into the crook of Jack’s neck has him jolting wide-awake a full twenty minutes after setting his alarm.

Kent could cry, he’s so frustrated. Sexually and otherwise.

*

Needless to say, Kent tears it the fuck up on the ice that night.

There’s a text from Jack waiting for him once he gets home from celebratory drinks with the guys that says, **Eric was swooning. Nice hatty. Bet I’ll still win the Rocket.**

_**You’re on Zimms.** _

*

The mini-pies are so delicious that Kent cries a little bit.

Princess is definitely judging him from the window sill, but he just says, “You’re just jealous,” and she goes back to grooming herself while KP bats at her swishing tail.

*

Two weeks later, both the Aces and the Falconers have pretty much officially made the playoffs and Kent thinks it’s due, in no small part, to the competition between Jack and himself. Kent’s been scoring goal after goal, helped along by teammates who insist on ensuring that Kent wins the bet. So far, Ovechkin’s still kicking both of their asses and Jamie Benn is putting up a good fight but, after last night’s games, he and Jack are tied for second.

Of course that’s when he gets another call from Eric. Kent mutes SportsCenter and answers it.

“ _Now, just what do you think you’re doin’?_ ”

Kent, confused and a little bit surprised, says, “Uh,” and hopes that Eric will elaborate.

“ _Jack’s workin’ himself half to death tryin’ to make sure he gets more points than you. Is this what passes for flirtin’ in the hockey world, Kent? Because if so, you and Jack need to step up y’all’s game._ ” The laugh is more surprised out of Kent than anything, this obnoxious cackling one that’s still embarrassing even after all these years. But then Eric just snorts and says, “ _Oh, lord. Jack warned me about that._ ”

“Hey!” Kent says, indignant. “It’s – whatever, he has no room to talk. I’m sure you’ve heard his hyena-goose thing –”

“ _Right before he stops breathin’,_ ” Eric says, sounding fond and delighted, “ _Oh, have I ever. Anyway, like I was sayin’…you’ve got no game, Parson._ ”

“I’ve got _plenty_ of game.” Princess hops up onto Kent’s belly, meowing loudly in demand of scritches. Kent obliges, of course, because she won’t stop meowing in his face until he does. “So much game,” Kent insists, “that I snagged you by proxy.”

Eric’s quiet for a minute, but then his tone goes mushy around the edges when he says, “ _Alright, I’ll give ya that one._ ”

From his toes up to the tips of his ears, Kent goes warm. “Damn right.”

*

Kent doesn’t actually notice that Eric must have been keeping track of his game schedule until he’s feeling weirdly antsy still, even thirty minutes after his usual pre-game nap and can’t quite pin the reason. He gets the urge to call Eric, has his thumb hovering over his name in his contact list, and that’s when it hits him.

Because apparently their phone calls have been integrated so seamlessly into his pre-game routine that Kent can’t just let it fly. 

When he thinks a little harder, Kent remembers that they’re in Providence; they’re playing the Falconers tonight. They’re playing _Jack_ tonight. (How the fuck did he forget?) And well. It’s not fair to just. Expect Eric to go along with it and be part of his pre-game when he’s probably rooting for Jack tonight. Because they’re married and all.

After a pause where the antsy-feeling just keeps building, Kent says, “Fuck it,” and calls Eric to let him know because he’ll feel off-kilter all night if he doesn’t. 

“ _Oh, hey, darlin’_ ,” Eric says, easy as ever, making all of the stress melts straight out of Kent, “ _You doin’ alright?_ ”

Breathing a little easier, Kent says, “Yeah…” and then listens to the way there’s some serious movement coming through the other line. “Are you…busy?”

Eric chuffs a little laugh. “ _Just makin’ some gameday cookies for the boys. I meant to call you once you woke up from your nap._ ” 

“…So you _did_ notice. That this is a thing.” And that must be a mixer going, because it gets louder for a few seconds before the noise stops altogether. 

“ _I was wonderin’ when_ you’d _notice,_ ” Eric says, lilting tone laced with humor. “ _I clearly know from experience, Kent. Gotta train y’all or it won’t stick._ ”

And well…he’s not wrong. “Huh.”

“ _Now,_ ” Eric says, “ _I want you to play your best tonight. And, like I said last week, if you can somehow manage to stick around an extra day, you’re more than welcome to the house._ ”

Groaning, heart thumping, Kent turns his face into the stiff hotel sheets and wishes with all his heart that he could figure out a way to swing it. “I _want_ to, believe me. But we’ve got –”

“ _A flight to Detroit and optional skate once you get there. Even though it’s_ optional,” Eric points out, droning on in the way that delineates just how often Eric’s been part of conversations like this. “ _You don’t wanna miss it ‘cause you’re captain, I know._ ” Eric sighs and it’s sweet as sugar. “ _Y’all work yourselves so hard; I hope you’re not expectin’ me to raise all our kids myself._ ”

There’s a pause in which Kent is pretty sure he’s made some kind of sound – but he can’t help it. “You, if – I,” Kent tries to breathe and a laugh shakes out. He’s – it’s hard to believe that Eric could just _say_ that, breezy as ever, like it’s a foregone conclusion. Like Kent hasn’t been fretting for weeks about whether or not he’d actually, legitimately be welcomed, be part of their family. “I wouldn’t dare. Can’t have them all sounding like little southern belles, now can I?”

Eric giggles, and when he starts talking again, his voice is all tinny like his phone isn’t wedged between his ear and shoulder anymore. “ _As long as the eh-to-y’all ratio is proportionate, I think we’ll be alright._ ”

“You do know I’m not actually Canadian, right?”

The eyeroll in response is practically audible. “ _You moved there when you were seven. You speak French. You’re pretty much Canadian._ ”

They bicker about Kent’s roots – which he’s _American_ , a _New Yorker_ , even, thank you very much – until he’s to the point where he’ll only be on time instead of early if he heads down to the hotel lobby immediately, and then he’s shuttling over with the team, padding up, skating out onto the ice for warmups.

Jeff pretends to check Kent into the boards while they’re in line to take shots on Rader. “You alright, eh, Parser?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Kent asks – and then he accepts the puck from Jansser, skates in a tight half-circle and shoots on Rader. It doesn’t go in, caught with a glove before it’s tossed away, Rader calling out a chirp that Kent only half-listens to. Mostly, he’s just glad that Rader seems to be on top of his game. Good.

It takes a minute before they’re next to each other again, Kent taking a minute to stretch out his hip flexors a little more, but Jeff just picks the conversation back up with, “Because we’re playing your boyfriend’s husband tonight,” and, _Jesus_ , Kent can’t help but paste on a media-smile and say something incredibly insulting about Jeff’s mother in French while Jeff retaliates with something equally scathing about Kent’s heritage.

Then warmups are over and they’re heading back to the locker room and Jeff hooks his stick around Kent’s middle to make him hang back for a second.

“ _What_ , bro?”

Jeff eyes him. “I just want to make sure you’ve got your head in it straight off the bat.” And, shit, yeah, okay. This is probably why Jeff’s got the A. He can see through Kent’s bullshit better than anyone else on the team _and_ he’s a total bulldog about it. 

Kent fiddles with his chinstrap. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“ _Good_ ,” Jeff says, patting Kent’s helmet, “Let’s keep it that way, eh?”

Huffing a sigh, Kent follows Jeff into the locker room and gives the boys a pump up speech – and then, before he knows it, he’s out beneath the flashing lights and facing down Jack for the puck drop.

*

Kent bangs into the locker room, blood streaming down his chin from the gash on his cheek, and it’s times like these that he’s pissed about their away jerseys being white. Looking down sort of turns his stomach, even after he’s been butterfly bandaged by the trainer and sent back out to finish out the third period.

It’s always like that when they’re playing the Schooners (those fuckers) and somehow, the crowd booing as he takes his seat on the bench is worse than when they were booing him for the brawl with Ivanov. 

The game’s fueled by rage after that, messy, and somehow they end up scraping by with an OT win. Kent hates it, but he’s not going to complain. They still got the point; they’re still going to playoffs. He’ll take what he can get.

That must be why, when he’s trying to decompress post-game and watching the original _Spiderman_ movies on his laptop, and his phone lights up with Eric’s smiling face, Kent practically sighs his, “Hey.” Because it’s probably like 4AM in Providence and _of course_ Eric is up. He’s started that new bakery boutique job two days ago, so he should actually already be at work. 

Only it’s actually Jack’s voice saying, “ _Uh, is there – why would you be using that tone on my husband?_ ”

_Shit_. Heart in his throat, Kent hedges, “What tone?” because _holy shit_ is Eric going to kill him.

“ _Don’t – Kent, don’t you – I know that tone; I’m the first one to’ve ever heard it, you asshole. Why –_ “

And Jack’s a little closer to panicking than Kent’s at all comfortable with and he’s suddenly feeling like shit but – “Zimms – _hey_ , Jack. Breathe, just a sec. I’ll – I’ll explain.” He’s – well. Kent decides that glacial is not the pace that they should be using to ease Jack into the idea, because _clearly_ that’s not working. “It – you remember our first game together this season?” Nothing but silence greets Kent’s ears, but he knows that Jack’s listening. “Day after you went and married Bittle, and we played, and we – we _clicked_ , Jack. Jesus, it was perfect, even though –” Okay, no. This isn’t about that. This is about, “Eric found me after the game. He – he s-said that. That you still love me.”

“ _Kenny…_ ”

“It’s _true_ , Jack,” Kent bites out, a touch too sharply. “I – I’m not saying you love him any less, and that’s what Eric was telling me. That. That he knew I still love you. And he loves you, _obviously_ , so he just. Brought up the point that…why shouldn’t we all just love each other?” 

Still there’s silence and it goes on long enough that Kent actually pulls the phone from his ear to make sure the line’s connected; he almost misses Jack’s sigh. 

As much as it hurts, Kent makes himself say, “I…I understand if – if you don’t want me.” He takes a rushed, half-sob of a breath and forces out, “I won’t talk to Eric ever again. If that’s what you want.” Even though his heart’s pounding in his ears, up his throat, Kent’s listening. He’ll do whatever Jack wants. It’s always been that way, and it’ll always be that way. 

“ _Kent. I…_ ” Jack pauses and Kent’s holding his breath, hoping and praying and waiting, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to finish his thought.

“I just,” Kent blurts, “I _love_ you, Jack. I’ll do whatever it – I just want you to be happy. And if that’s with me alongside Eric, then great, but if. If it’s not…I’ll back off. I won’t –”

“ _Ta gueule, oké? Just…_ ” Jack takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. 

Kent can imagine the way he’s curled in on himself right now, knees tucked to his chest, eyes closed, hand against his forehead. It makes him want to stroke over the curve of Jack’s shoulders, tell him he’s sorry. 

Jack’s voice sounds so rough when he says, “ _You’re. I’m going to have to think about it. Talk to Eric._ ”

*

Not even twenty minutes later, while Kent’s still curled up on his side, listening to the snores of whoever’s rooming next to him and trying his hardest to feel anything but numb, his phone goes off. His voice is rough, but he answers, “Hello,” without really looking.

“ _Kent? Hey, it’s Eric…sorry I’m callin’ from a weird number, I left my phone at home and I called Jack to have him give you a call an’ – well, I didn’t think he’d use my phone but – I’m sorry. Are you alright, hon?_ ”

Kent breathes out a, “No,” before he can really help it. “Should you be talking to me right now? I. I think I really fucked up. Again.”

“ _I can damn well talk to whomever I please, an’ if you an’ Jack think otherwise, then y’all’ve got another thing comin’._ ”

“I’m not…I just –”

“ _Hey,_ ” Eric says softly, and Kent’s so tired, so thoroughly wiped out that he’s dizzy with it. “ _I am_ not _givin’ up on this, alright? Just. Give it a little bit of time. Crap – hey, I’ve gotta get back to work. Take care, Kent._ ”

*

“C’mon,” Jeff says, snatching Kent’s bag from his shoulder and tossing it to Rader before he steers Kent towards the door by the shoulders. “It’s been weeks and you’re still moping. You’re coming with us.”

“But –”

“ _Mon cher capitaine, nous avons de la bière! Et du vin. Veux-tu vraiment --_ ” Bertrand asks, slinging an arm around Kent’s shoulder. 

Kent sighs. “Guys. I don’t.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Rader says, crazy goalie eyes on full blast, “You do.”

And that – being _bullied_ by his own teammates – is how Kent ends up sitting on Jeff’s floor with his feet up on Rader’s lap while Berts twists Kent’s cowlick around his finger. He’s drunk enough to not care and the boys are pretty much right there with him, hopefully smashed enough to only have vague, fuzzy memories of how Kent’s voice cracked when he started talking about his conversation with Jack and how he hasn’t heard from him _or_ Eric since that day. 

“It’s not even _about_ that, though. I just,” Kent slurs, “I just want him to be happy. And I want to be the thing that _makes_ him happy, but…” He turns his face against Berts’s leg and tries not to cry. It’s hard, what with all the wine he’s had. It always makes him a little weepy. “And _Eric_ , you guys. He’s. He’s everything I’m not and that’s probably why Jack loves him so much. But I can’t even hate him for it, ‘cause he’s so nice. He’s from _Georgia_. He’s got this accent and –” Kent sighs, warm all over even though he’s _heartbroken_.

“So you’ve got the world’s biggest crush on Eric and you’re still in love with Jack…”

“I think this is actually the gayest shit I’ve ever heard,” Jeff points out, taking another pull of his beer. “I love you, Kent, but bro. This is _gay_.”

Kent ignores Jeff and whines to Berts, “ _J'veux l'prendre dans ma bouche._ ” 

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Jeff says, giggling, “No, _that – that_ is the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.” Rader socks him in the shoulder on Kent’s behalf but Jeff just keeps giggling. “I’m sorry, Parser, but really. Super gay, eh?”

“ _So_ gay,” Kent agrees, nodding and giggling a bit himself, “I’m so gay for them, oh my _god_.”

After that, Kent’s not sure about everything that happens because he ends up with more wine and then at some point Bertrand takes his phone – so that must be why, when Kent wakes up the next day, it’s to the sound of the Titanic theme blaring from Jeff’s kitchen counter. And it takes him a minute but eventually he stumbles his way over (because _holy shit_ , he might still be a little drunk) to see that the missed call was from Jack.

Kent busts out laughing before he can help himself, and then he’s wincing because his head hurts so bad that his eyes are fucking throbbing. “Ow, _fuck_.” And yeah, he’s definitely still drunk, because tears come to his eyes when he says, “Come back…Jack,” like Rose. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Rader asks, and Kent jumps because he definitely hadn’t seen him sitting in the dark at the table with a cup of coffee like a total fucking freak. 

“No,” Kent sighs. “I – can you take me home?” He wants to talk to Jack, like _now_ , and this is not a conversation he wants to have in front of his friends.

“What about your car?”

“Still drunk. I’ll take a cab or, or, fucking Uber, and get it later – Rader, _please_.” Kent’s about two seconds away from crawling his drunk ass into the dude’s lap and promising sexual favors. “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—“

Rader sighs, all put upon, but he gets up and drains the rest of his coffee before dumping the mug into Jeff’s sink. “Alright, c’mon, Captain Five-Year-Old. Let’s go.”

Kent spends the whole car ride vibrating in the seat and trying to tamp down his nausea at being upright by guzzling a couple of water bottles. Rader pats Kent’s shoulder and wishes him luck before Kent hops out and rushes inside, and Kent tries to pretend he doesn’t need it. But he really, _really_ does. Because Jack might be – he might cut Kent out of his life for good and. Kent’s not sure how well he’s going to handle it.

It takes a few tries for him to get his key to work properly and then he’s disengaging his house alarm on autopilot ( _correctly_ , thank god) and then KP’s mewling up at him, so he takes a few minutes to feed her and Princess, petting them and apologizing for not coming home, and then – 

_Better go rip the Bandaid off_ , he thinks. 

Sighing, stomach turning, Kent scrubs a hand over his face and…he’s tempted to go to his office, because he’d rather keep all of his bad news memories in one place, but he can’t be sure that this _is_ a bad news call because he’s got this microscopic glimmer of hope flickering in his chest. So maybe he should go to his room, or maybe the couch –

“Get it together, Parson,” Kent grumbles to himself. Before he can chicken out, he presses the red name in his received calls list and tries not to panic.

It rings for so long that Kent’s already mentally preparing a voicemail message, so when Jack actually picks up, Kent’s saying, “Hey, it’s Kent, calling you back,” before he realizes it’s _actually_ Jack. “Oh.”

“ _Hi, Kenny. Uh. It’s been a while, eh?_ ” Jack sounds so delightfully awkward, but light and almost…excited. It’s a tone Kent hasn’t heard in years. Maybe since – since that time he’d wrecked that party at Samwell, sneaking up on Jack while he was talking to Eric. Kent hasn’t been the cause of that tone in longer than he’d care to think about.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Kent says, cradling the phone close. He. He wants to say things, but he knows better. He knows he needs to wait and let Jack speak, but. _Fuck_. The suspense is killing him.

It’s probably a good thing he’s still a little drunk because the twenty seconds it takes Jack to finally say, “ _I – I’m sorry, Kenny. You were right,_ ” feels more like two seconds, and the breathless, “ _Je t’aime tellement_ ,” sounds like a dream. But it’s real. It’s _real_. “ _Je ne sais pas comment but we’ll – we’ll figure something out, oui? We’ll make it work._ ”

Kent’s exhale is a wrecked, relieved sob, shuddery and fractured, but not quite broken.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Hey,_ ” Bitty says when Kent groggily picks up, “ _Didja get my email? I need help decidin’ on what to make for the playoff party since Jack’s off in Switzerland or wherever._ ”

Kent’s brain is still sluggishly booting up so he mostly grumbles out something resembling, “What?” and scritches beneath Princess’s chin. She purrs, content for the time being, and doesn’t seem too upset when Kent flips over and attempts to sit up.

“ _The_ party, _Kent. What with you makin’ it to round two and all, I thought I’d invite some of the Samwell guys over to watch it._ ” Eric sounds huffy. It’s cute. “ _Now, put me on speaker and check your email, please._ ”

It’s a link to Eric’s Pinterest, chock full of recipes and pictures of all kinds of baked goods and – Kent’s stomach grumbles. It all looks so good. And maybe Kent kind of groans a little, this tiny breathy thing that he _knows_ sounds kind of like he’s getting really good head. Because that picture of salted caramel drizzled chocolate chip cookies looks a helluva lot better than some of the head Kent’s gotten.

Eric clears his throat. “ _Goodness. Uh._ ”

“Salted caramel ones. Definitely.” Kent eyes the picture again. “Holy _fuck_ those look delicious. Will you make me some?” He rolls onto his stomach, giving a soft grunt that’s probably slightly more obscene than he intends. But, whatever, those cookies look good and Kent’s sleep-warm and Eric’s voice is two fingers of sin skipping down Kent’s spine. 

“ _Tell ya what,_ ” Eric says, “ _You stop soundin’…like that, and I’ll make ‘em for ya the next time we see each other, alright?_ ”

Kent buries his laugh into his pillow. “Deal.”

*

So, it turns out that even though Kent’s personal life is staggeringly better off now, it’s not translating well to the ice. At all.

They beat the Stars twice at home and lose every single away game. 

And Kent _likes_ Texas. He likes the accents, the people, the big open sky. Hell, he even likes their hockey team; they’re a good group of guys. But he _hates_ losing. And, more so, he hates getting knocked out of the playoffs in the third round. It’s goddamn embarrassing for anyone, let alone the youngest captain to ever win a Stanley Cup. 

“Man, _fuck_ Texas,” Rader says, taking a pull of his beer. 

Jeff downs another shot and Kent’s stomach is turning a bit at the smell of the tequila, so he makes Nilsy switch him spots so that he can drink his fourth fuckin’ piña colada in peace. Bertsy laughs about the _parapluie_ and Kent slurs, “You’re jus’ jealous,” and tries to take a sip, but it pokes him in the cheek. “Ow.”

Jansser and Petshka are talking to a pair of tiny blonde girls with the biggest curls Kent has ever seen and, for whatever reason, they make him think of Eric.

Kent sighs. “I _miss_ him.”

There’s a chorus of groans and eyes are rolled and chirps are tossed out, but Kent just sips at his delicious fruity drink and ignores them.

“You’ve met him, like, twice,” Jeff points out in a puff of tequila breath _from across the table_.

“I _know_ ,” Kent says, because _exactly_. They talk on the phone all the time and they even tried Skyping once, but Princess had knocked Kent’s laptop off the desk and shattered the screen. None of it feels like enough. He wants to – now that he knows Eric can be his too, all Kent wants to do is kiss him.

There’s an influx of noise, chairs and tables scraping across the floor, and Kent’s almost expecting some raucous bar fight, but instead it’s a makeshift dancefloor and people are _line dancing_ and singing along to some country song that makes Kent think of Jack.

And that’s about all he can take.

“I’m gonna fly to Providence,” Kent announces to nobody in particular, “I gotta see ‘em. This is torture.” 

But his phone isn’t in his pocket and he should probably finish his drink because the Dallas Stars are picking up their tab tonight and it wouldn’t be cool to be wasteful.

*

Once Kent makes it back home to Vegas, he’s feeling pretty shitty with the reminders of their third round failures literally everywhere around them. He doesn’t want to go to locker cleanout and he _really_ doesn’t want to talk to the media scrum afterwards. It’s going to be tough regardless, but now it’s too late for him to escape off to play World’s like Jack’s doing and Kent’s…he’s _lonely_.

But. He pastes on a smile and deals with it. It’s his job. (His multimillion dollar job that he has no right to complain about _whatsoever_. He has reaped what he’s sown; it’s as simple as that.) 

After all of that, and burgers and beers with the boys, Kent makes his way back home and starts looking at flights for a trip to Montréal. He hasn’t seen his mom or his siblings in a while. They’ve opted out of coming down for playoffs ever since his team won the Cup because _apparently_ he’d driven them crazy with how stressed he’d gotten. But, hey, whatever. The incessant worrying and snapping and obsessively sticking to his routines had worked. Regardless, his mom has been making noises about moving back to New York to be close to Fletch and his kids now that Sully’s graduating from high school.

Come to think of it, Kent should probably go visit Fletcher while he’s at it, so he checks on tickets out to Albany too. 

Really, what he wants to do is just mope about losing the playoffs by getting drunk on a beach somewhere, maybe play a little golf or. Who is he kidding? He wants to see Jack. He wants to see _Eric_. 

He shoots a text to Eric that says, _**What if…during off-season…I, hypothetically, planned a visit to Providence……..what would be good dates? Hypothetically.**_

Hypothetically? Once Jack gets back home, we’re gonna visit our parents. Mom first, then Bob & Alicia. We’ll be back from Montréal the 16th of June. 

Kent’s smile might be alarmingly big if he were anywhere but the sanctity of his own home, in anyone else’s presence but his cats. 

Princess stares at him, so Kent says, “Don’t look at me like that.”

She goes back to looking out the window.

*

Kent makes it back home in time to watch his little sister get her diploma and then it’s a rush of relatives and old friends, a riptide dragging him under and leaving him to flail for the surface for just a hint of peace. It makes him realize why he doesn’t come back all that often. Which makes him feel rude, of course, so he puts a little extra effort into being there and present and engaged with his family.

After the post-graduation party is over, Sully comes back home from making rounds to her friends’ parties (that must be sans relatives, Kent figures out, because she hugs him really hard and smells a little bit like Molson and cigarettes) and then Kent notices she’s a little teary-eyed, so he ushers her onto the back porch.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Kent asks, nudging Sully’s shoulder with his own.

She swipes carefully beneath her eye, like she still wants her makeup to look as flawless as it had during all of her graduation pictures even though she’s in for the night. She gives a shrug and then takes a deep breath as she looks up at the sky. “Just haven’t seen you in a while. Wasn’t sure you’d be able to make it.”

Kent wrapping an arm around her shoulder, says, “ _Hey_ , no. Even if we hadn’t lost, I would’ve found a way to be here.”

Sully rolls her eyes and swipes at her eyes again. “Oh, whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes even as a tiny smile sneaks onto her expression. “You owe me, like. At least five hundred bucks for graduation.”

“Whatever you want, Sulls.” Kent rolls his eyes, but he means it. He’s pretty sure he’s going to end up buying her a new car or maybe pay for her college or something. Maybe pay her rent for her first year of college so she doesn’t have to live in dorms with a bunch of other kids who have no sense of decency.

She squints suspiciously at him and says, “Don’t say things if you don’t mean it.” 

Kent rolls his eyes this time. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

They mosey back inside and, after changing into clothes for lounging, meet back up in the kitchen to pick at desserts. Kent _really_ shouldn’t, but he mentally adds an extra half hour onto his bike-time for the morning and says fuck it.

“ _So,_ ” Sullivan says in a tone that means that Kent should probably brace himself, “Mom tells me you have boyfriends. Plural.” She shoves a huge pinch of a strudel-topped muffin into her mouth as she quirks a brow at him. “What’s that about?”

Kent, cheeks heating, starts to deny it, but. Jack said yes; Eric said yes. “Uh, well.” He scratches at the back of his neck and gives a tiny, nervous laugh. “You know Jack…”

Sully rolls her eyes so hard, Kent’s surprised they’re still in her head. “ _Yes_ , I know Jack – Jesus, Kenny, just spit it all out.”

“Well, ya know how he got married, right?” She rolls her eyes again and Kent reaches forward to tug on her hair for being an obnoxious little brat. “His husband came up to me after the first game we played against each other this season and – Well.”

“What,” she says, popping another bite of muffin as she quirks a brow, “he proposition you?”

Sighing, Kent wonders how he could’ve forgotten about his sister’s complete lack of a filter. But, hey, at least it’s making the whole searching-for-words thing a little easier on Kent. “Uh, sort of? But not like… _sex_ , ya know. More like. That he thought that –”

“That Jack missed you?” 

Kent knows he’s blushing, but he can’t really do anything to help it. Talking about…him and Jack, the idea of it – that’s always been enough to make him feel like a kid again. He’s sitting in his childhood kitchen with his little sister, sneaking a second round of dessert after they’d already brushed their teeth, just like they used to do when they were little. It’s surreal, almost. Like he’s in some weird alternate reality, a window to his past. 

Only now…now Kent can actually _do_ something about it. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice rough. “Pretty much. Is that…”

“Oh, my _god_ , Kent. Of course I’m okay with it. Mom too. You’ve been pining over Jack for as long as I can remember, so really.” She, like it pains her, reaches out and squeezes Kent’s hand. “Whatever kind of… _situation_ works for you. Just. We’re happy, if you’re happy.”

Kent waits a beat and then says, “Wow, did you strain something?”

Sully says, “You’re such an asshole,” too loud because Mom shouts, “Language!” all the way from her room.

Even though Sully kicks his shin and Kent just laughs, it does feel good to know that his sister doesn’t think he’s weird or, a complete freak, or something. Or, well. Any more than usual.

*

The novelty of Kent being home wears off within a few days and people stop gawping long enough for Kent to be able to enjoy a trip to the mall with his mom and sister without being stopped every five steps for an autograph or a selfie. Sully wanted new shoes as her graduation present from Mom, so they’re browsing DSW when Kent phone rings, Jack’s face illuminating the screen.

Too slowly, Kent realizes that Sully’s gasp isn’t because of the perfect pair of pumps. 

“ _Hey!_ ” Kent says, a bit too loud because people turn to look – and then _notice it’s him_ – while Sully makes off with his phone. “Sh-crap,” he mutters, pasting on his people-friendly grin as a group of preteen girls approach him.

“Are you Kent Parson?” one of them asks. 

Her friend smacks her in the arm with the back of her hand, hissing, “ _Of course_ , it’s him, dumbass. Look at that smile.”

Laughing, Kent flips his hat around so that he looks a bit less like he’s trying to be incognito. He takes a glance at their shopping bags, trying to gauge what they’ve been shopping for just so he can make a bit of conversation and stop feeling so awkward about his sister talking on the phone to Jack. As far as he knows, she hasn’t done that since…well. A long time ago.

“Getting some summer clothes, eh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the first girl says, tucking some hair behind her ear. She looks like she’s actually trying to bat her eyelashes at him, which Kent will laugh about later. Not now. As much as he wants to. “Hey, can you, maybe, like.”

“Want me to sign something?” Kent asks before the girl can strain herself. She gives a massive grin and nods, but doesn’t actually move to grab anything for Kent to sign. Luckily, Kent’s always got a couple of club-supplied trading cards in his wallet, if he forgets to put a few in his pockets before he leaves the house. He pulls them out and both of the girls gasp like he’s bestowing upon them the best gift imaginable. “Always keep a few of these on me for my biggest fans,” he says, motioning for one of the girls to come near so he can use her shoulder for a hard surface. “Think you ladies fit the bill?”

Kent’s pretty sure his mom is only pretending to look at shoes but is actually internally laughing her ass off at him.

While still he’s making (painful) small talk with the twelve-year-olds, Sully hangs up the phone and comes over to tuck it back into Kent’s breast pocket. “Here you go, Kent. Jack says hi, by the way.” She gives it a pat and scampers back to their mom.

“Jack Zimmermann?” one of the girls asks, eyes going wide and bright. Kent can only imagine how closely she’s been following _Deadspin_ and tries not to visibly cringe. “Didn’t he just get married?”

“You know, I heard the same thing,” he says slowly. Kent hands the second girl her autographed card. “I’m gonna get back to shopping with my family. You two have a great day, alright?” He escapes while he’s got a chance.

Taking his phone from his pocket, Kent types out a quick, _**Sorry about Sully. We’re at the mall getting her some new shoes. Everything okay?**_

Jack’s first response says, **Yeah, just wanted to talk to you** , and then Kent’s phone vibrates with another that says, **Call me when you get home** , before he gets a chance to answer. It’s not really a big deal or anything, even if it makes Kent’s stomach go liquid at the thought, but it’s just. If Kent were guessing, he’d say that it’s just…nice to feel wanted back.

Though Kent doesn’t really see the appeal, Sully decides on this pair of floral high heels that she says make her calves look fantastic. They’re weird, but whatever. She’s better at “making it work” than Kent is, anyway. Afterwards, Mom says she wants ice cream and Sully’s hungry for real food, so they head to the nearest steakhouse and Kent treats them all to lunch (and dessert, even though it makes Kent wistful for the stuff in the pictures on Eric’s Pinterest) and then a movie afterwards, and then dinner after that. Needless to say, it’s quite a bit later before they make it back home, pleasantly worn out from the day.

Kent’s lazing in bed when he finally remembers that he’s supposed to call Jack back, which must explain why his voice is a little rough when he says, “Hey,” after Jack picks up.

Only it’s not Jack – it’s Eric. And his voice is somehow rougher than Kent’s when he says, “ _Hey, darlin’._ ”

Unsure of the noise he’s just made, Kent says, “This a bad time?”

Eric laughs – _snorts_ , really – and says, “ _I’d call it a great time,_ ” his voice all breathy. “ _O-oh, goodness._ ” Then there’s the unmistakable (because it’s been burned into Kent’s memory for years and years and years) sound of Jack groaning around a mouthful of cock. _Eric’s cock._

“Uh – wow,” Kent breathes, going hot all over and hard all at once. He’s dizzy with it. “Um.”

“ _Jack said to – to answer. Didn’t wanna – oh!..._ ” There’s a pause – Jack slurping, Eric groaning. Kent rubs his crotch through his shorts. “ _Didn’t wanna miss your call. Say ‘hi,’ Jack._ ” 

There’s a filthy, wet sound of suction and then Jack’s voice, muffled and broken up like he just can’t take his mouth away – because he’s hungry for it; Kent just _knows_ the face he’s making – comes through with a sarcastic little, “ _Hi, Jack._ ”

Kent laughs, high and hysterical. “Oh, my god,” he says, shoving a hand down into his shorts. “Do you guys realize how ridiculous this is?”

Both of them laugh, Eric’s most audible, and Kent finds himself immediately, uncontrollably charmed. “ _Y’all coulda gotten it together an’ we coulda been –_ fuck, _baby, that’s good – coulda been doin’ this weeks ago._ ” Eric whines, high in his throat and loud in Kent’s ear. “ _Oh, my word. He’s so good with his mouth, Kent._ ”

Groaning quietly, squeezing his eyes shut and praying that he remembered to lock his door, Kent grips himself a little tighter, working his cock just as rough as he likes. “Jesus, don’t I know it. It’s –” Kent huffs a breath as his stomach goes tight with the memory. “It’s been a long time.” 

“ _Jack misses it,_ ” Eric says, “ _He told me so. Ain’t that right, Jack?_ ”

Clear as day, Jack’s sob comes through the phone speaker and that’s enough to make Kent lose it. He groans, “Oh, _fuck,_ ” a little louder than he means to, hoping to god that his family is either asleep or occupied enough to not notice, but it just feels so goddamn _good_ that he really can’t help himself. “Fuck, _fuck_ –” Distantly, he hears Jack making this terribly lovely noise and Eric whimpering, but it’s all far away because Kent’s fucking overwhelmed with how hard he’s coming, shivering and shaking and humping up into his fist because he can’t _not_ when it lasts for-fucking-ever like this. 

By the time he’s all wrung out, just panting down the line, Kent clues into the sounds of exchanged kisses and –

“ _Soon,_ ” Jack says, voice rough and shaking, “ _you’re going to be part of this, eh? Here, with us._ ” In the background, there’s a soft noise of agreement from Eric and then Jack groans, loud and sudden, right in Kent’s ear. “ _Fuck, Kenny, he’s absolument parfait avec sa bouche. He’s – ah, fuck –_”

Muffled, stern, Eric’s voice comes through. “ _Tell him, Jack, or I’m stoppin’._ ”

Jack makes a mournful sound, says quick and quiet, “ _He’s e-eating me out,_ ” and then there’s a sharp inhale, a loud groan, Jack saying, “ _Kenny –_ ”

“Yeah, Zimms,” Kent breathes out, remembering just how Jack likes to be coaxed through it, given a rough hand and a soft command. “That’s it, babe; let go.” 

Kent can hear that Jack’s falling apart, can hear Eric’s little chuckle while Kent just breathes and tries to wrap his mind around what just happened. 

“ _Thanks for the assist, there, Parson._ ”

Snorting a laugh, Kent says, “Anytime,” as he’s wiping his hand off with a tissue – and then starts when he realizes just how much he means it.

There’s a bit of a fumble on the other line; Jack speaks softly. A kiss. An exchanged, “love you.” A door creaking shut. Jack says, “ _Hey, you still there?_ ”

And yeah, Kent’s just leisurely scratching at his belly, wondering what the fuck he’s doing with his life, but he still says, “Yeah, Zimms. I’m here,” snorts, blurts a too-honest, “Always.” His heart’s just about beating out of his chest, and his breath’s too loud in his own ears, but Kent waits, keeps his mouth shut while Jack takes a moment to sift through his thoughts for the words he wants to share.

“ _So, uh,_ ” Jack says.

“C’mon, Zimms. Spit it out; haven’t got all day.”

Kent can practically hear Jack’s eyeroll when he says, “ _Shut_ up, _you asshole_.” He pauses again, and Kent’s struck with fondness at Jack’s exasperation. “ _Was that…okay?_ ”

“Yeah,” Kent says, probably too quickly. “I mean. _Clearly_ I had a terrible time, coming my brains out and all.”

Jack sighs, all exasperated, but Kent can totally hear the underlying affection. “ _You’re lucky I love you, you know._ ”

Heart in his throat, Kent swallows but his, “I know,” is still a quiet, rough little thing. “I really am.”

*

It feels way too soon before Kent’s on a flight to Albany, missing his mom and sister an insane amount, but excited to get to see his brother and the kids. He exchanges text messages with both Eric and Jack while they’re still sitting on the tarmac, gassing up or safety checking or whatever, and they both seem to be kind of distracted so, instead, Kent plugs into his favorite flight playlist and takes the opportunity to steal a nap.

Once the plane lands and Kent’s gone through security, he catches sight of Fletcher and has to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat. Whereas Kent’s blond and Sully’s brunette, Fletch inherited their dad’s reddish sandy-brown hair and, Kent supposes, his resting constipated-face.

Fletcher tries to shake Kent’s hand when he sees him, like a total idiot, and Kent rolls his eyes and tugs his brother in for a massive hug. “Missed you, bro,” Kent says, tucking his face into Fletch’s shoulder.

When they pull back, Fletch gives a half-smile and says, “It’s been too long.”

“Think the girls’ll remember me?” Kent asks, hitching his bag back up onto his shoulder.

Fletch shrugs and leads the way through the throng of reunions and bustling businessmen. “Carly says she does, but she’s going through this not-telling-the-truth phase –”

“Commonly called ‘lying,’” Kent interrupts, but Fletch just breezes right through.

“– so I’m not sure if she actually does. Mason definitely doesn’t; she was, what, six months old the last time you came to visit?”

“Sounds about right,” Kent answers, a frown tugging at his mouth. “Jeez. Maybe now that they’re getting bigger, you guys can all come visit. I’ve got plenty of space – _and_ a guest house.”

Laughing, Fletch says, “Christ, I know. You’ve got space for half of Albany in that mansion of yours.”

Kent snorts, because yeah, his house is ridiculous and he knows it, but _someday_ , god help him, it’s going to be full of family, kids and cats and dogs, hockey gear and pie tins and crayon stains. It’s all Kent wants and now he knows he can have it. With _Jack_ (and Eric), no less.

“Now what’s _that_ face all about?” Fletch says, nudging Kent along with his elbow. He points to his car and pops the trunk open for Kent to stow his bags. 

Shrugging, Kent doesn’t even try to keep the grin off of his face. “I dunno.”

“You don’t tell me, I’ll just find out from Mom and Suls later. It’s up to you, bro.”

With a sigh, Kent buckles in and buckles down. “You know how I…Jack.”

Fletch sounds completely exasperated when he says, “Yes, I know Jack. What about him?”

By the time they get out of the airport traffic and out to the suburbs, Fletch is making less of the disbelieving faces and more of the reluctantly accepting ones that Kent can recognize with his eyes closed. Kent follows his brother into the house and is immediately assuaged by the overjoyed shrieks of six year old Carly as she thunders down the stairs and launches herself straight into Kent’s arms. 

“Unca Kee!” Carly shouts directly into Kent’s ear, “I missed you!”

Kent pretends to stagger under her weight, groaning, “Goodness, you’ve gotten so big! How old are you now? Twenty five?” She massive compared to the last time Kent saw her, grown a little more out of the baby fat and into her own features. Thankfully, she looks more like Amy than Fletch with her dark eyes and porcelain complexion. 

“No, silly! I’m six!” Carly shows off a massive gap between her teeth when she grins, obviously fishing for a comment at the very least.

“Whoa!” Kent exclaims, squinting to pretend to get a better look. “Now what happened here? Is that…did you lose a _tooth?_ ”

Kent catches sight of Amy in the doorway with little Mason trailing behind her. Amy’s stomach is round and taut, clearly what’s causing her to waddle slowly in their direction; she must be due any day now.

“No!” Carly says, “Two teef.” 

Amy says something to Carly in Mandarin and she gives a disappointed, “Aww,” and then wriggles until Kent sets her down. Then Amy turns her attention to Kent, opening her arms for a hug. “It’s always nice to see you, Kent.” She kisses his cheek and turns to chastise her husband, “Why don’t you invite him more often?”

Carly’s vibrating in place and Mase is still hiding behind her mom’s leg.

Kent unshoulders his bag and drops carefully to his knees, pretending to be just as shy as Mason. “Hi,” he says quietly. “Is that a teddy bear you’ve got there?”

Mason shakes her head, but starts slowly smiling. 

“Is it…a dog?” he asks, letting his own grin creep up onto his face.

She shakes head again, but gives a tiny giggle. “No,” she says, holding it out. “Bunny.”

Kent solemnly takes it whenever she offers it out.

*

Even all tuckered out, Carly asks for Kent to read her a bedtime story after she gets ready for bed. Only after some minor pleading, Fletch and Amy get her to brush her teeth and then she’s all Kent’s, tucked in and ready to hear some _Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig_. Kent reads each character with a unique voice and finds himself chuckling a bit at some of the narration even as he notices Carly dropping off to sleep.

Once he’s out of there and back downstairs, sitting on the couch with his brother, watching a recorded basketball game and sipping a beer, Kent realizes he’s neglected his phone for most of the evening and frees it from his pocket to see a few texts from Eric. Kent had sent some selfies he’d taken with the girls his way earlier in the day, so most of the messages are just **AWW** or some variation thereof. 

Kent smiles to himself and focuses his attention back on the TV.

Only, he’s not really a fan of basketball, so it’s no time at all before he’s nudging Fletch with his toe and asking, “So how’s life?”

Fletch turns the volume down and looks at Kent. “What d’ya mean?”

“Like. Fatherhood, work,” Kent says, waving a hand, “the works. Give me an overview.”

Sighing, smiling, Fletch leans back into the overstuffed recliner and says, “I don’t know, kiddo. It’s good. Real good.” He takes a pull from his beer, eyeing Kent before he tumbles into some story about Carly’s discovery of the f-word and how Mason is actually the funniest kid in the universe. Fletch talks and talks and talks, clearly able to keep going until Kent’s willing to stop him, but Kent doesn’t – instead he asks questions, laughs where it’s warranted, and asks to see pictures in between stories. 

“And what about Amy? How’s this pregnancy going?” Kent asks, dipping his socked toes between the second and third couch cushions. “Is it better, uh, _easier_ than last time?”

“Oh, yeah, this one’s good. No pre-eclampsia so far this time around; we’ve really been keeping an eye on that. She’s tired, mostly. Just ready to meet Kieran, now, I think.” Fletch grins and scratches at his belly beneath his shirt, looking every bit the part of the dad that he is.

It makes Kent giggle. And weirdly wistful. He shouldn’t want a dad-body, not when he still has a Cup to win with Jack. But he really wouldn’t mind, not if it meant this kind of domestic contentedness all the time. “Kieran, huh? Gonna have my initials.”

Fletch snorts. “Oh, Christ, I didn’t think about that. Little guy’s already cursed.”

Kent gives an indignant, “Hey!” but doesn’t truly take it to heart. “It’s very Irish, though. Think mom wanted to name one of us that but dad wouldn’t let her, actually.”

“Yeah,” Fletch says, “he told me.”

They share a conspiring grin and polish off their beers, Fletch standing and stretching before shuffling over to tug on Kent’s cowlick like he used to when Kent was really little and they all still lived together. Kent bids his brother goodnight and stays up a little while longer, just buzzed enough to feel good and tired, but not effected enough to have trouble ordering his thoughts. All of this, the family time and bonding and secret-divulging, makes Kent really wonder if he’s ready for it all now as opposed to later. He’ll have the support of his family, and more than likely at least a few of his friends from the team…

He’d never really thought about retiring before an injury took him out or something of the sort, but. Well. It’s just that – something the think about.

Staring at nothing in particular in the dark of the room, listening to the _tink_ of the chains hitting the bulb with each fan rotation, Kent smiles and thinks of family.

*

Kent doesn’t know why he’s surprised to see Rader’s naked ass on his couch when he makes it back home from Albany, because goalies are a brand of crazy all on their own. Honestly, it’s not too out of the ordinary, because he’s exactly the type of guy to parade around the locker room buck ass nude, it’s just that this is _not the locker room_. But hey. Mostly, he’s just glad that Rader seems to be the _only_ naked ass in the vicinity, so he doesn’t even bother waking his buddy up, instead opting to cart his luggage to the laundry room to just dump it in the washer before he gets too lazy.

Rader isn’t generally Kent’s first choice to do the whole house-sitting thing, because that’d be Jeff, but he at least remembers to feed the cats and water Kent’s house plants when they look super droopy. 

While he’s separating out his lights and darks, Princess meanders in and bumps her head against Kent’s calves until he bends to scoop her up, letting her sit on the dryer while he tosses stuff into the washer. She meows plaintively until Kent says, “Okay, okay,” and stops doing laundry long enough to pet her.

And then Rader’s shouting, “Better get the fuck out or I’m callin’ the cops!” appearing naked in the doorway, wielding one of Kent’s hockey sticks. Obviously, he calms down a bit when he sees it’s just Kent, but that doesn’t make him any less naked. “Jesus, bro! Thought you were a creepy fan or something. How was your trip?” Kent sighs pointedly, because what kind of burglar would do fucking _laundry_ , but it doesn’t make Rader so much as flinch toward a pair of pants, so Kent just goes on to talk about how his family is doing, how the girls have gotten so big, and how he’s having a G-Wagon delivered to the house for Sully. 

Once Rader’s dressed and gotten his stuff out of Kent’s house with a, “Later, bro,” Kent calls Jeff to meet him for burgers at Double Down. 

Jeff’s generally pretty chill, if a little bit of an asshole, so it’s why he’s the first person that Kent tells about going to see Jack and Eric in Providence.

“No shit?” Jeff asks around a mouthful of burger. “It’s actually happening then, eh?”

“Yeah, I mean we already had phone sex so,” Kent says, just to make Jeff splutter on his Stella. Laughing, because he too is an asshole, Kent steals a few of Jeff’s fries and says, “It was phenomenal, thanks for asking.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Jeff blinks at him, but Kent can tell he’s just trying not to smile. “Well, hey, kid. Good, uh. Good for you.”

Kent snorts and then polishes off his own beer. “Thanks,” he says, drily as he can manage.

That’s pretty much the end of that line of conversation, because Jeff isn’t as good at feelings as Bertsy and Rader, so Kent just blabs about the new Beyoncé video (because she is a _queen_ ; he doesn’t care what Jeff says) and this pair of shoes he’s thinking about getting. Then the conversation turns to sports – which, whatever; hockey’s the only sport that matters – and Kent checks out just a bit because he’s bored, but tunes back in enough to ask about Jeff’s new girlfriend. And it turns out that, hey, Jeff’s in an open relationship too.

“So, wait, when did that happen?” Kent asks, sliding his empty pint glass between his hands. “Is it – _details_ , Jeff, c’mon man.” 

“Dude,” Jeff says, “I don’t know. Steph’s. She’s something else, you know? I mean, I’m gone on her and she knows it, so I just. Whatever she wants, ya know?”

Kent…well. First, he’s really confused, because he’s pretty sure Jeff’s not the type of guy to let anyone, even someone he’s completely ass over tits in love with, take advantage of him that way. “Uh.”

“It was my idea, I suppose. We were watching – well, nevermind. She was just talking about how hot one of the chicks was and – I’d known that she was bisexual for a while now, but it didn’t really hit me until then.” Jeff looks – _bashful_. “So I was like, ‘hey, if you wanna fuck other chicks that’s fine,’ and she said okay. But, that was a while ago.”

“Didn’t feel real ‘til it actually started happening, eh?”

Jeff shrugs. “It’s hot to think about. Plus, hey, she always comes home to me. Tells me about it, too.”

The waitress stops by to bring them another couple of beers and Kent flashes her a grin in thanks. He tilts his glass against Jeff’s and says, “Better put a ring on it, buddy.”

For a while they talk through the details of what Jeff’s relationship with Stephany consists of – no she doesn’t just pick up, yes gives Jeff details, _no_ he will not share them with Kent, but yes Jeff is thinking about his own options and what exactly this means for him – until Jeff’s phone lights up and vibrates across the wooden tabletop with Steph’s face smiling up at him. Kent waves Jeff off with a sleazy grin and goes to pay their tab.

*

“Where’s my fucking…” Kent’s ass-up, face-down on his bed trying to reach between the headboard and the wall to get his charger unplugged, casting around for his phone while he’s at it. He’s halfway to just moving his whole goddamn bed out of the way, because he is definitely making this more difficult than it has to be, when one of his alarms goes off and – Kent shouts, “ _FUCK_ ,” loud enough that KP jumps off of his bookshelf just to claw a chunk out of his calf.

Kent can’t even be mad, really. He needs to quit getting so angry, he knows.

“Okay, okay,” he breathes to himself, ignoring the stinging twinge from the antiseptic as he cleans the fucking _wound_ and goes back to packing his shit up because he doesn’t actually want to be late. But he is.

He rushes to the airport through midday fucking rush hour traffic and then goes to the wrong gate, finds his way back to where he’s supposed to be, backtracks to a different gate because of a delay and then – fucking _finally_ – boards the plane.

Kent kind of hates flying a little bit. Especially when it’s not on the team charter.

The first six hours, Kent keeps his headphones in for white noise while he naps and wakes up ravenous, barely opening his mouth before a flight attendant asks if she can get him anything – only she has the kind of gleam in her eye like she wants him to follow her back to the tiny bathrooms, and nope. Kent’s not up for that.

He grins and chokes out a, “No, thank you,” and then digs in his bag for the shitty, unhealthy trail mix he bought at the airport. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he remembers waking up at some point – at maybe like 2AM? – to Eric’s text tone, but can’t remember if he ever responded. When he looks back, though, to see Eric’s **Are ya sure you don’t want me to pick you up at the airport?** Kent can’t help but smile. 

Kent just sends back _**It’s alright babe. Only a few hours and I’ll be in Providence. Shouldn’t you be asleep?**_

Eric’s reply comes in just after a bit of turbulence – that Kent had to close his eyes and just breathe for, because _fuck that_ – and it just says **…Maybe I’m a little excited to see you.**

**_Only a little?_ **

Kent can almost hear Eric’s exasperation when he reads **Maybe ;)**

His heart feels warm and heavy, and he’s crunched through enough trail mix to stave off hunger pangs that he’s able to sleep for another hour. When he wakes up again, the seatbelt light is on. Landing definitely isn’t Kent’s favorite part of flying (because it’s watching sunrises and sunsets, duh) but the plane doesn’t explode when the wheels hit the tarmac, so Kent assumes things went off without a hitch. He’s practically vibrating in his seat, probably pissing off the dude a couple of seats over who’s been engrossed in his iPad the whole damn flight – Kent doesn’t even _want_ to know – but he’s in _Providence_. 

He’s going to see _Jack_ and _Eric_ in, hopefully, an hour or less. 

So, excuse him if he’s a little excited.

Kent files off the plane when it’s his turn, goes through security and grabs his bag as quickly as he can without looking like a threat to national security, and then nabs a cab to take him through the early morning streets of Providence. Everything looks just like it has the last few times he’s been here, but it feels like he’s seeing everything with a brand new perspective.

This place is Jack and Eric’s home; Kent realizes he’s looking at it like it could be his home too.

The Zimmermann residence, when it comes into view, is yellow and white with dark shingles and looks strangely morose and cheery at the same time. It’s got a wraparound porch and tons of windows and it looks massive enough to house Jack, Kent, Eric, and a whole brood of children. The front yard is nicely maintained – which Kent knows for a fact that Eric does all by himself – and, as soon as Kent steps out of the cab, smells faintly of apples. Because there’s an _apple tree_ , how fucking cute is that. 

Kent sends Eric a text saying that he’s here and two seconds later the front door opens to a pink-cheeked, widely grinning Eric. Kent’s maybe a little stricken, because his heart’s suddenly really loud in his ears, but then he’s jolting forward and smiling like an idiot as he rushes out a breathless, “Hi,” and scoops Eric into a hug.

Eric makes a little squeaking noise but still tightens his arms and then – wow, yeah, Kent’s kissing him and he’s not even a little bit sorry. Eric’s mouth is warm – and so is the stinging smack to Kent’s chest. “Christ almighty, Kent, the neighbors’ll see!” 

Breathily, Kent says, “So?” but he does set Eric gently down, his bare toes pale against the concrete steps leading to the front porch. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Eric says, folding his arms over his middle and eyeing Kent appreciatively. “Come on in, Parse. You’re lettin’ flies in.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Kent drawls, watching Eric’s skinny legs in those tiny shorts as he follows him into the house. “Oh, my g– what’s that – it smells _so good_.” Kent’s not even just saying that because he’s been trapped in airports and a plane and a cab for the last twelve hours; it actually smells like heaven.

Eric just smirks and says, “Drop your bags by the stairs an’ I’ll show ya.”

Kent does as the man says and then follows dutifully to the kitchen, mouth already watering before he sets his sights on the cookies. He ( _almost_ ) successfully stifles his moan. “Are those the ones from your Pinterest?”

“The very ones,” Eric says, pink-cheeked. “I did promise, after all.” He looks absolutely pleased with himself and Kent –

He has to kiss him. 

Kent crowds Eric against the granite-topped island and breathes for just a second before he asks, “Can I kiss you?” while staring at Eric’s lips. He’s about two seconds away from adding in a, “Please,” when Eric tilts his head up and pressing the lightest of kisses to Kent’s cheek.

Eric darts away right after, looking all too smug, and then he’s tugging on a pair of oven mitts and shooing Kent out of the way of the oven door. “I’ve gotta work my magic on these. Why don’t you go wake Jack up from his nap, darlin’? I’m sure he’ll be all got away with once he figures out it’s you an’ not me.”

“Uh,” Kent says intelligently.

“Surprised,” Eric drawls before Kent can even ask – like he’s experienced this confusion before. He takes the tray out and sets it onto an errant pot holder before he wields a spatula and waves it at Kent. “Upstairs, farthest room to the north.”

Suddenly swallowing a knot of nerves, Kent says, “Okay.” Because he’s _got this_. He takes a deep breath and retrieves his bags – which, wow, Louis Vuitton seems a little out of place in the midst of the cozy and homey décor of their house – and lugs up the stairs.

Paintings and scenic photographs line the walls of the upper floor, interspersed with pictures and signed hockey sticks and weird decorative sculptures. Kent almost steps on the fronds of a fern and then catches himself against a doorknob. “Jesus,” he whispers under his breath. It’s definitely easier to be graceful on the ice, but hey, _cool_ , he found a bathroom.

The master bedroom’s door is cracked open just wide enough for Kent to glimpse the dark shock of Jack’s hair against the fluffiest looking white comforter Kent’s ever seen. His mouth’s open and he looks all of five years old, his brow furrowed and hand twitching into the sheets, bare shoulder on display. 

It might be the best thing Kent’s ever seen.

His breath leaves him in a rush and Kent’s bags drop to the floor with a loud thud. Which of course means Jack’s eyes snap open because he’s a weirdo robot fucking freak who looks like he wakes up all at once instead of slowly like a normal person. Kent laughs and watches Jack’s expression shift from confusion to anger to surprise in the span of three whole seconds, and then, screw it, he does a flying elbow into the center of the massive bed and says, “Hey, Zimms,” with a shit-eating grin. “Didja miss me?”

“ _Kenny,_ ” rushes out of Jack all garbled and sleep-heavy, but it still makes Kent’s heart thump out of sync in his chest. Jack’s hand curls into Kent’s flannel and then he’s drawing Kent in, kissing him with the tang of sleep tinging everything a touch sour, gripping Kent like he’s just part of a dream that Jack doesn’t want to let go of and – shit. That’s a nice feeling. “Missed you,” Jack murmurs, and then, almost sounding petulant, he says, “You taste like Eric.”

Kent laughs, unable to help himself as he toes off his shoes, letting them drop over the edge of the bed, and curls onto his side. “Wonder why.”

“You kissed my husband.”

“Mhm,” Kent says, running his hand over Jack’s shoulder and down his bare chest beneath the comforter – which is definitely down; no wonder the house is so cold. “Shoulda been there, Zimms.”

Jack sighs like he agrees, but then closes his eyes and turns his face into the pillow. He sucks at naps, especially the part where he has to wake up from them, which is part of the reason why Kent lets his hand keep drifting down until he finds out that, yeah, Jack’s not wearing anything. Kent’s a giving person, really, which is why he scritches through Jack’s trimmed pubic hair just the way he likes and then trails all the way down to Jack’s balls.

“Want me to blow you ‘til you wake up?” Kent asks curiously, stroking back up to Jack’s hardening dick.

“’M ‘wake,” Jack mumbles.

Kent huffs a laugh. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to talk yourself out of a blowjob.”

Jack whines, “ _No_ ,” and clutches tighter at Kent’s shirt. “Don’t go.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kent muses.

There’s a loud noise from downstairs, and Kent remembers that he’s _here_ and _now_ and that they’re not alone and that Jack isn’t just his. He should probably clear it with all parties before he delves into more than just casually groping his – not-ex. Ex-ex? Jack. He should ask Eric if it’s alright. Or if he wants to join them. 

“Eric, I’m gonna blow your husband!” Kent calls, still feeling the steadily growing heaviness of Jack’s cock in his hand. The foreskin’s starting to slide a little less and Kent’s mouth is already watering with how much he wants it. 

But, thankfully, Eric just shouts back an amused, “Have fun!” so Kent _goes to town_.

It’s been far, _far_ too long since Kent’s been able to taste Jack, to feel the silky warm weight of him stretching Kent’s lips to capacity and then some. Kent groans and reaches down to pet over Jack’s sac and that’s when Jack finally makes Kent’s favorite breathy, almost pained noise, like it’s too much too soon and too good. 

Kent’s head is under the covers and he’s slurping a little too loudly to hear what Jack’s saying, but the sharp tug at his hair is warning enough. 

When Kent resurfaces from the depths of the down comforter, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth and feeling so goddamn pleased, Jack’s staring at him like he can’t believe he’s real and then he’s saying, “ _Fuck,_ ” just before he tugs Kent in to lick the taste of himself out of Kent’s mouth. 

Jack’s bigger and likes, as always, to use that to his advantage. He’s got a hold on Kent and when he starts bullying his way into Kent’s space, Kent has no choice but to roll onto his back and flop down into the pillows. Jack straddles him, presses him into the mattress, and Kent’s so hard and so happy that he thinks he might die. But what a way to go.

“Jack,” Kent murmurs against Jack’s mouth. 

“Yeah, Kenny,” is all Jack says, less as a response and more as an agreement.

Kent’s about to bust the zipper of his jeans though, so he presses a little more urgently at Jack’s shoulders until they disconnect, Jack staring down at Kent with furrowed brows and those icy blues. It’s intense. Kent’s breath catches in his throat, but he soldiers on. “I gotta come, like. _Yesterday_ , dude.”

Jack smirks like a little shit. “What’s stopping you?”

Rolling his eyes, Kent heaves up until Jack’s rolled off to the side, sprawled against the bed and flushed all the way down his chest. He’s bulked up since the last time Kent saw him, thicker in the shoulders and arms than Kent remembers, and _goddamn_ if it doesn’t send Kent’s blood singing. “Get on your belly,” Kent says, “I’ve got shit to do.” He tugs himself out of his pants, gives his junk a comforting squeeze, and groans when Jack finally complies. Kent leans in, takes two handfuls of Jack’s ass and breathes out, “I _missed_ you.”

“…Are you talking to my ass?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Kent says, leaning even closer to press a kiss to either cheek. “Christ, it’s been too long.” 

Jack smothers a laugh into his pillow while Kent busies himself running his hands over the dips and curves of muscle that compose Jack’s back, shoulders, and ass. It’s not until Jack starts shifting against the sheets, making impatient noises, that Kent gives his ass another squeeze and then gets to work. 

Kent’s been riding the edge of too turned on to function for the last ten minutes, so it’s really no wonder that he comes – all over Jack’s ass, of course – after just a handful of tugs and the bitchy way Jack says, “Get on with it, Kenny,” like he hasn’t got time for Kent to truly appreciate the work of art that is his ass.

Flopping over, dick spent, smiling, Kent grins at Jack and says, “Hey, can I use your shower? I smell like coach class.”

Jack rolls his eyes, probably because, yeah, that was a little douchey. “Duh. And get me a wash cloth.”

“Get yourself one, you lazy fuck.” Kent shuffles out of the bed before Jack’s swat can connect with his thigh.

“You came all over my ass!”

Kent snickers to himself on his way to the ensuite. “I sure did.” He finds a washcloth hanging up on a – warming towel rack, how pretentious. He wets it and tosses it onto the center of Jack’s back with a wet slop before he runs, laughing, back into the bathroom and starts the shower. While he’s under the spray, he thinks about all the things he wants to do – namely rim Jack for hours on end, blow Eric until he’s hoarse, ride both of them into next week – at some point during his stay here in Providence. And then he starts thinking about, like, how he already doesn’t want to leave Jack and Eric, so he starts going over what all he’d have to do in order to get to stay here at least until convention.

Maybe after the convention in August is over, he could come back for a few weeks. At least until pre-season starts. Jack probably wouldn’t mind too much if they trained together.

After toweling off and dragging his suitcases into the bedroom, Kent throws on some clothes and heads downstairs, stomach growling angrily when he catches a whiff of those fucking toffee caramel cookies before he even hits the landing. 

And when he gets down there, Jack’s standing between Eric’s splayed thighs where he’s sitting on the counter, being kissed like he’s the one who’s trapped in place. Kent spies the cookies on the island, though, so he nabs one and takes a bite – and _fuck_ yes. They’re just as good as they look – before Eric notices they have company. He tosses a grin Kent’s way over Jack’s shoulder and then Jack’s smiling just a little bit too, once he notices Kent’s there. It’s kind of picture perfect.

So Kent lifts his phone and snaps one, cookie still hanging half out of his mouth.

He snaps a few more, just to laugh at the way Jack’s expression shifts to frowning while Eric laughs, head tossed back and everything. 

Kent shrugs, pocketing his phone. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Eric pushes at Jack’s shoulders and hops down from the counter. “No worries, darlin’. What’s ours is yours.” He sidles up into Kent’s space and leans up for a quick kiss, chaste what with Kent’s mouth still being mostly full of cookie. “Y’all hungry for some lunch?”

Shrugging, Kent says, “I could always eat,” just as Jack gives an enthusiastic, “ _Yes_.” 

And that’s how they end up at this place called Nick’s on Broadway just a ten minute drive away. Kent knows he shouldn’t be surprised that Jack and Eric have a standing reservation at the place, a table tucked away toward the back, because the owners are massive Falconers fans and, somehow, even bigger Eric Zimmermann fans. They get led back pretty much immediately, the hostess not batting an eye at the new addition after she greets Jack and Eric like old buddies. 

Eric rattles off, “Water for Jack and I think Parse an’ I’d like to share a bottle of _Gruet Blanc de Noirs_ , if ya don’t mind, hon,” once the waitress arrives. He cheeses a big smile at her and slides his sunglasses up into his hair, shifting his focus almost immediately to Kent. “Hope ya like sparklin’ white.” 

“Uh, sure.” 

Kent’s more of a beer or fruity drinks kind of guy, but he did have champagne after they’d won the Cup. Plus, he bought a bottle of Cristal they day he turned twenty-one, just because he could. It’s probably still in the back of his fridge.

“I’ve been makin’ my way through the list here since Jack’s been wantin’ to go on a wine-tastin’ tour for our honeymoon.”

It stings, just a little, to hear that, but Kent can stomach the thought long enough to get out, “Oh, yeah?” while he looks over the menu. (Okay, stares blankly at it, pretending to look it over. Whatever.) Jack’s being even quieter than usual, studying the menu like he can’t find any options that fit within his meal plan – which, whatever, Kent’s already seen at least five things Jack could get if he weren’t so damn picky.

“Mhm,” Eric continues. “I wouldn’t mind to go somewhere in the U.S., like Napa or somethin’, but Jack said that’s not as romantic as it’d be to fly out to Italy.” His fingers are a cold shock against Kent’s wrist. “What do you think, Kent?”

Kent looks at the slim fingers on his wrist. “Why are you asking me?”

“Would you rather go to Napa or all the way to Italy?” Eric asks, like he’s annoyed that Kent’s not keeping up.

It’s just that – Kent’s still kind of trying to figure out if he just got invited along for a honeymoon when he’s not the one that just got married a couple of months ago. “Uh, I’m not –”

“Yes, you are,” Jack says, not even bothering to look up from the menu.

Eric just smiles pointedly and Kent tries not to blush.

“Either, I guess, I don’t –” 

The waitress brings out a bucket full of ice with the fancy towel setup and everything, pours out two half-glasses of wine and leaves it on the table with a pleasant, “I’ll be right back with your water,” to Jack. Kent’s kind of stuck staring at the condensation sliding down the side of the bucket, mind whirling as he tries to think of how in the hell this is actually going to work.

Like, yeah, he’d been thinking about it for ages, _wanting_ it, but. Now, it’s like. _Reality_.

“Napa’ll be cooler this time of year, yeah, but – _Italy_ ,” Eric says. “I just don’t know! Yeah, it’d be real neat to see an’ all, but I feel like y’all look at me like I don’t even speak English half the time, so I don’t know how I’d get by tryin’ to learn Italian.”

He says it like _eye_ -talian and Kent can only hold in his giggles for so long. Kent recovers pretty quickly though, because the waitress returns to give Jack his water and to take their orders, and he has to make something up relatively quickly because he’d been too preoccupied with the whole situation on hand to make a decision. 

The second the waitress leaves, and Eric glares at Kent, he’s raising his hands and saying, “I’m sorry, you’re just – adorable, really.” He looks over at Jack, who’s kind of just gazing at Eric all love-struck and fond. “You realize you got the sweet end of the deal, right Jack?”

Jack just sighs out, “Yeah,” and then straightens, takes a sip of his water. 

Eric grumbles something under his breath and Kent finally puts him out of his misery, saying, “Whatever you like.” Which is definitely reference to lyrics of a song by T.I., so Kent’s understandably surprised when Eric snickers and sings, probably a touch too loud for such a swanky restaurant, “ _Late night sex so wet, so tight._ Lord almighty, that song is old.” 

Jack looks mildly horrified, but Kent just grins about as big as he can, because Eric is _perfect_.

“Marry me,” Kent says.

“Too slow,” Jack says, looking far too smug for Kent’s liking, “I already got dibs.”

Eric just laughs and takes a sip of his wine, raising a brow at Jack. “There’s enough of me to go around, Mr. Zimmermann.” 

Kent reaches up and wraps his fingers around Eric’s bicep. “I dunno,” he says, “Looks like we might have to ration you out.”

“Yeah, Bitty,” Jack teases – and _hey_ , if he still calls him that even though they’re married, then Kent could too, right? – but then he smirks. “Eat more protein. Then we’ll talk.”

Whatever it is about that statement makes Eric blush and then tilt his chin up for a kiss that Jack obliges, even though they’re in _public_. “Yeah, yeah,” Eric drawls fondly, even as his hand drifts down to rest on Kent’s leg.

The contact is soothing, probably like Eric had realized they were excluding him from the mushiness, and Kent finds himself unclenching. “So, how was Montréal?” 

Eric’s expression goes a little manic, but he doesn’t dispute Jack’s, “Good.” 

“How are Bob and Alicia?” Kent asks.

“ _On leur a dit à propos de nous._ ” Jack clears his throat. “ _De nous trois._ ”

“ _Ouais?_ ”

Eric looks mildly frustrated, but he still rubs his thumb along the curve of Kent’s thigh. He exchanges a look with Jack, but goes back to quietly sipping his wine while their conversation continues in French. Feeling bold and like he needs to do a bit of reassuring, Kent covers Eric’s hand with his own, rubbing his thumb along the outside of Eric’s pinky. Even as he’s talking to Jack, he still can’t help but notice how much smaller Eric is than them. Kent’s not a tiny dude, but compared to Jack he’s been called little. But Eric actually _is_ small – tiny, even.

“ _J’en suis sûr. Ils nous acceptent. J’te promets. Mes parents ne te détestent pas, imbécile._ ”

Shrugging, giving Eric’s hand another reassuring squeeze, Kent replies, “ _Si tu le dis_ ,” to Jack and takes a sip of wine. Though he wouldn’t say it’s his favorite, Kent makes a tiny involuntary noise of pleasure the moment the wine hits his tongue. 

“Pretty good, right?” Eric asks, brown eyes shining with delight. “Fruity, but not too sweet?”

“Yeah,” Kent enthuses, “Is that raspberry?”

“I dunno,” Eric says, “but whatever it is, it’s _good_.” He giggles and takes another sip from his own glass. 

Kent gets kind of distracted watching the line of Eric’s throat as he goes in for a second gulp, and heat spreads up across his own cheeks as he meets Jack’s eyes just beyond the view. Jack’s eyes look heavy, dark, pleased even, like he’s sharing this secret with Kent and can’t wait until they can talk about it some more later on. Only, the secret they get to share is a person.

Of course the moment Kent opens his mouth to ask about their plans for later, a small team of waiters arrive with their various foodstuffs. It all looks and smells delicious, and if the cookie earlier was any indication, Kent should’ve known that Eric has some serious standards when it comes to food.

“Oh, goodness,” Eric breathes, a little pink in the cheeks as he smiles widely, taking in the spread. He looks about two seconds away from gleefully clapping and Kent can’t help but smile.

“Is he always like this?” Kent asks Jack.

Jack raises an eyebrow and gives a tiny nod in a _yeah, what can ya do_ kind of way. His laser focus switches to his egg white omelet, examining it for any spare bits of something he might not like. Kent hadn’t really realized that he’d missed the way Jack takes a cautious bite before relaxing into enjoying his food, but hey. Apparently he did.

Kent cuts into eggs benedict and – “Oh, my _god_ ,” he says, trying to quell more inappropriate noises. “I’ve gotta admit, I’m kind of jealous that you guys live here.”

“Speakin’ of,” Eric says, a bit too loud, like he might already be tipsy – but Jack says, “Bitty,” quietly and crowds up into his space, grinning helplessly against Eric’s cheek before he presses a kiss and shushes him. Eric just giggles and says, “Sorry,” significantly quieter, then turns to Kent. “ _Speakin’ of_ , I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said what’s ours is yours.”

“Uh,” Kent says, trying to focus on gently setting his fork and knife down before taking another sip of the wine. “Isn’t it…a little soon? To like. Ask me to move in.”

Jack fixes Kent with a look. “Kenny,” he says, brows knit, “We want you. You want us, right?”

Warming all over at Jack’s matter-of-fact declaration, Kent nods. “Course I do, it’s just.” He sighs and then picks his fork back up, trying to think through their options. “How are we going to make this work?”

Eric frowns, and for the first time since he’d arrived, Kent feels unsure. Of himself, of everything. Except for the fact that he wants them more than anything. That won’t change. It’s just – how are they supposed to split their time between two NHL teams and two countries and all the time-zones and so many months of the year that they’ll be too busy to see each other –

“You gotta want it and be willin’ to work for it,” Eric says, pulling Kent out of his thoughts. “Yeah, it might take a few years, but darlin’ –” He reaches down, squeezes Kent’s hand where it’s clenched into his napkin over his lap. “– we’ve got the time. We’ll figure it out.”

Kent nods. “Right,” he says. 

For the rest of their meal, Eric chatters and gets steadily tipsier as the afternoon wears on. They sit and talk, catching up on family and friends and teammates and coworkers, same as they’d been doing over the phone for all of these months, and Kent realizes just how much nicer it is to be able to see their reactions in person. He gets to see Eric’s sassy expressions and Jack’s fond little smiles. Kent gets to hear about Eric’s progress on revamping his vlog and compare how his own summer training is to coming along to Jack’s. 

After a while, the tension Kent had brought down on them dissipates and he’s able to just enjoy being with the guys he’s kind of completely obsessed with, sipping another shared bottle of wine as they linger over brunch and giggling to himself as Jack keeps gently trying to make Eric drink more water.

“Jack, I’m _fine_ ,” Eric says, accent so thick that Kent has to adjust himself under the table.

“Yeah, Jack,” Kent leers, “He’s _fine_.”

Jack mutters, “ _Enfant de chienne ,_” under his breath and says, a little louder, “You two are going to be terrible together, eh?” But he’s smiling a little bit and raising an eyebrow like he means it more as excitement than apprehension.

Kent savors the last few bites of his brunch and sips at the dregs of his wine, feeling loose and happy and full. He smiles fondly as Eric and Jack argue over ordering dessert, because Eric insists that it’s okay for Jack to indulge a little bit every now and then, and Jack bitches about indulging _all the time_ because Eric, apparently, never actually stops baking. Eventually, they settle on fruit cobbler to share while Kent orders himself a brownie with home-spun crème fraiche with chocolate sauce and feels absolutely no shame eating the whole thing by himself. 

(Mostly, anyways, because he definitely fed a spoonful to Eric when he’d blinked up at him in a weird combination of hungry and wholesome, and then with Jack just because he’d had his mouth open as he watched Eric lick the spoon clean.)

“If I lived here, I’d blow my meal plan _daily_ ,” Kent says as he leans back in his chair, slinging his arm across the back of Eric’s. 

One hand on his tiny, flat belly, Eric says, “You _do_ live here. You and Jack and me, we live here and Vegas and Georgia and Canada. Wherever we are, we’re in it together.” 

He sounds so sincere that Kent can’t help but believe him.


	3. Chapter 3

“So what’s there to do in Providence?” Kent asks, hands in his pockets as he trails Jack and Eric out of the restaurant.

Eric turns and grins up at Kent, sidled up against Jack beneath his arm. “Well, it’s not as fancy as all those casinos y’all have in Vegas, but it’s pretty much like any other city. Museums, art galleries, malls, historical sites. There’s that castle over in Newport and a bunch of festivals all summer long. Also, did ya know that Providence is one of the gayest cities in America?” Eric babbles on, clear through the drive back to their house and into the foyer as they all toe off their shoes. “I’m off tomorrow too, but maybe the day after that I could take ya to visit my work?”

Kent shoots a look at Jack and then crowds Eric up against the wall adjacent to the door. “Anyone ever tell you that you tend to ramble?” he asks, not bothering to fight the grin that creeps up on him. “It’s cute.”

“Sorry,” Eric says sheepishly, putting his hands on Kent’s chest, “’s worse when I’ve been drinkin’.”

“ _I’ve been drinkin’, I’ve been drinkin’_ ,” Kent croons around a giggle, learning down to nuzzle at Eric’s throat, still feeling the wine.

Eric returns it with, “ _I get filthy when that liquor get into me,_ ” sliding his hands down to settle at Kent’s waist, slipping one between Kent’s undershirt and the back of his jeans to tug Kent closer.

Kent’s voice is a bit gravellier when he sings the next, “ _I’ve been thinkin’, I’ve been thinkin’._ ”

And then Jack practically shouts, “Beyoncé!” looking so proud of himself that, when Kent exchanges a look with Eric, they both burst into laughter edging on hysterical. Jack only looks annoyed for a second, because then Kent’s tugging on his belt loop, leaning up to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.

“Very good,” Eric praises Jack, eyes half-lidded as he looks them both over, “But, uh. Goodness, can we maybe move this upstairs?”

“Song’s pretty accurate if you ask me,” Kent teases, squeezing at Eric’s hip before releasing him.

“Oh,” Eric retorts, “so you’re a gangster wife?”

Jack laughs, but Kent just smirks at Eric, winks, and says, “No, but I’m horny as hell.” He follows Jack up the stairs, eyes on his spectacular ass while Eric trails behind him. “You can ask Jack, here,” Kent says, reaching up to give Jack a tap. “He knows what I’m like.”

“It’s true,” Jack concedes, even as he glares at Kent once they all reach the landing. “He’s a handsy drunk.” Then he tugs Kent in by the shirt, tucking him under his arm as he ruffles Kent’s hair. “Also weepy with wine, so honestly I’m a little surprised we’ve made it this far without tears.”

“ _Jack._ ” Kent’s cheeks flame even though there’s no way Eric wouldn’t have figured this out on his own time. But, hey, at least Jack feels comfortable enough for teasing. “Stop telling all my secrets.”

Jack gives Kent a tiny grin, and then says, “Yeah, okay,” before leaning in for a kiss. Kent, shameless, reaches around for two handfuls of Jack Zimmermann’s trademark spectacular ass and groans into it, opening up for Jack to suck on his tongue, bite at his lips. Vaguely, Kent hears a breathy little, “Oh, goodness,” but he’s a little distracted when Jack gives him a thigh to grind up against. Kent’s so lost in the heat and wetness of Jack’s mouth and the dirty twitches of his hips that he flinches when he feels Eric’s hands slipping up his shirt as he presses up against Kent’s back. 

Eric croons, “Shh, it’s alright, darlin’,” as Kent whimpers into Jack’s mouth, Eric’s fingers tangled up with Kent’s zipper. He’s unsurprisingly gentle, like his soft hands have transferred over into the easy way he gets Kent’s pants undone and his hand cupping Kent’s junk. 

Kent pulls back to pant, realizing that he’s clutching at Jack’s biceps like his life depends on it.

And maybe it does – because Eric isn’t messing around, and Jack’s steady and solid and – oh, smiling.

“Just wait ‘til he gets his mouth on you, darlin’,” Eric’s saying into Kent’s shoulder just as Jack’s dropping to his knees, “He’s been tellin’ me ‘bout how he’s been wantin’ it ever since that phone call.” Eric pauses to strip off Kent’s shirt, press a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Gonna make ya shake apart. How long d’ya think you’ll last?”

Shivering back into Eric’s touch, Kent groans softly and tries to keep his thighs from twitching whenever Jack gets a hand around the base of his cock while Eric’s on an upstroke. He breathes out, “Fuck. You guys’ll be lucky if I last five minutes. I’m just saying.” He can’t help shivering again whenever Eric laughs against his skin, breath warm like his hands that drift upwards to tweak at Kent’s nipples at exactly the same time that Jack starts licking at the head of Kent’s cock.

Kent’s not going to survive this.

Eric’s reaching around Kent, carding his fingers through Jack’s hair as he sucks Kent down, groaning loudly enough for it to kind of destroy Kent in the best possible way. “Slower, sweetheart,” Eric says to Jack, and then, “Hmm. Let’s maybe get him on the bed so none of us go strainin’ somethin’.”

“Yeah,” Kent roughs out, “Please.” He honestly doesn’t know how his legs are holding him up right now. Unsteadily, Kent follows Eric the last few steps to the bed and sits down hard onto the edge. “Okay, wait,” he says, “Why am I the only one naked?”

“Oh, lord,” Eric grumbles almost immediately. “You’re gonna make fun of me, too.”

Honestly, Kent barely catches it, already sex-dumb because of all of the bare skin that’s suddenly on display between both Eric and Jack stripping off their shirts. “Huh?”

Eric glares as Jack turns, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smile from him, and then barks out a laugh when Eric jabs a finger into Jack’s side. “ _Someone_ ,” Eric says pointedly, even as he’s kicking his underwear from around his ankle, “makes fun of me for the way I say – that word.”

“Naked?” Kent asks.

“Yeah, that one.”

Intrigued, turned on, Kent’s struggling between needing an answer and needing to reach out and touch all of the skin that he can. “Well how do you say it?”

Jack laughs again, quickly darting away and crawling onto the bed to take refuge behind Kent while Eric stands there at the end of the bed, hands on his hips. It’s kind of hilarious, what with his semi kind of bobbing into the air while he’s trying to keep looking irritated. Eric sighs and finally says it, hiding his face with his hands. 

Kent, still sitting on the edge of the bed, grabs Eric by the hips and tugs him in. “I think it’s cute,” he says, nosing at Eric’s wrist. 

Eric’s face is pink when he uncovers it. He wraps his arms around Kent’s shoulders and leans in closer, grinning softly. “Really?”

Humming, Kent licks his lips and – thankfully, Eric gets the message, because he leans down and kisses him, soft and sweet and so perfect that Kent can’t help but groan into it, running his hands over the narrow sides of Eric’s middle, curving around his back. He feels Eric’s fingers slide into his hair, firmer than he’d been expecting. Eric tugs, guiding Kent’s head where he wants it, and Kent’s not going to complain because it’s the perfect angle for Eric to lick into his mouth. Kent’s toes curl.

It’s not until Jack says, “ _Tabarnac_ ,” that Kent fully remembers he’s right there behind him. And then Jack’s saying, “Bitty, please,” and suddenly the world shifts and Kent realizes that, _oh_ , Eric just shoved him back onto the bed. 

“Well, come on then,” Eric says, crawling up beside Kent, palming at his chest. Kent covers his hand where it’s resting over his pounding heart. “Thought you said you wanted it, Jack.”

“Fuck yeah you do,” Kent agrees. He’s starting to edge into that too hard, too desperate feeling – but thankfully Jack just groans and leans in, mouth first, lashes casting a dark shadow over the sharp jut of his cheekbones; honestly, Kent’s a little distracted just by the anticipation and the sight that he actually jolts when Jack makes contact. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Shh,” Eric soothes around a laugh, pressing a kiss against Kent’s temple. “Let him work his magic, darlin’.” 

Eric twirls his fingers into the hair sticking up from Kent’s forehead, giving it a tiny tug before he leans in and presses a kiss to Kent’s forehead; meanwhile, Jack’s sinking his mouth deeper, and Kent can’t pull a full breath. Jack’s just licking and humming to himself like he’s pleased, in the zone, and it’s already pretty much more than Kent can bear, but that’s nothing compared to the deep, gutted moan Kent has to let out when Jack swallows him all the way down.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” Eric says. His hand disappears from Kent’s chest and, head swirling, Kent looks down to see his fingers twining through Jack’s hair. 

“Oh, fuck.”

Jack pulls off with an obscene wet sound, his lips already puffed up a bit and cherry red, and then asks, “Want me to…?” while wiggling his fingers.

Even Eric gives a delicate little gasp. Kent, on the other hand, kicks a leg out and tries not to sob at the sight of Jack looking at him, half-lidded and curious just beyond his dick. It’s – “Fuck, please,” – overwhelming. Kent doesn’t even realize he’s clutching at Eric with the hand he doesn’t have twisted up into the fluffy down comforter, hard enough to already have left red marks, precursors to fingertip bruises. “Sorry,” Kent breathes, “fuck.” 

“’S okay, Kent,” Eric drawls, proffering a half-grin. “But I won’t say no to ya kissin’ it better.”

Kent hisses into the kiss, because Jack’s suddenly not fucking around. He’s sucking on the head of Kent’s dick like his life depends on it, eyes wide as he stares up at where Kent’s only halfway paying attention to Eric kissing him, sliding a finger up between the crease of his lips, getting it wet and sloppy.

A sense memory hits Kent out of the neutral zone, like a check right off the bench – Jack’s finger pops free and presses delicately against the sensitive skin between Kent’s balls and his asshole and – “Fuck!” He vividly remembers the first time Jack had ever pressed up on his perineum, an exploratory motion that resulted in Kent, yeah, okay, _prematurely_ coming his brains out all up his chest and onto the shirt he hadn’t taken off yet. He’d had to borrow one of Jack’s before he went back home. But it’d been worth it. _So_ worth it.

“Jack,” Kent says breathlessly, breaking away from Eric’s mouth again. Eric just moves down to Kent’s jawline. “D’ya remember – remember the first time you…?”

Nodding, Jack groans and spreads his hand over Kent’s pubic bone, his thumb is still pressing into Kent’s perineum, giving him extra pulses of pleasure. 

Eric laughs into Kent’s neck, the ridge of his nose brushing against Kent’s jaw. “Can’t wait ‘til he gets a finger in you, huh, darlin’?” And, no, that’s not really the purpose of this, not exactly. But Eric kisses Kent’s neck and – oh _fuck_ , it’s just like Kent’d imagined, Eric’s voice in his ear, soft and sweet and _filthy_. His hips judder against Kent’s side, a streak of precome slicking the path as Eric reaches up to stroke Kent’s hair away from his forehead. “Want one of mine too?”

“Holy shit,” Kent rushes out, stomach jumping at the thought, “Yeah, do it. Fuck. Please.” 

Again, Eric huffs a little laugh. “Well, since ya asked so politely, I guess I ought to.”

When Kent looks down, Jack’s looking almost hazy-eyed, sucking at Kent slowly, no rush, like he’s right where he wants to be, doing exactly what he wants to be doing. It’s a pretty heady feeling.

The bed shifts and Eric’s warmth leaves Kent’s side, displaced to the spread of his legs, Jack against his left, Eric against his right. With both of them looking up the length of Kent’s body, Kent’s suddenly sure that this isn’t going to last long. Especially not with the way he’s been fucking aching for this for months, and now that he’s here, now that he actually gets to _have this_ …Kent could die happy.

“Guys, I’m – I –” 

“It’s okay, Kenny,” Jack says, voice rough as he pets up over the wiry hairs of Kent’s thighs, “ _On va prendre soin de toi._ ”

Eric whines a noise, short and sharp like he might not have meant to, but Kent shakes his head to clear a bit of the haze and realizes that, _oh_ , he’s touching himself. And Eric’s not – he’s kind of proportionate, really, and cut unlike Jack and Kent, but – _oh_ , the head of his cock is so red it’s nearly purple and Kent just wants it _in him_. 

“Holy – fuck me, Eric,” he breathes – and yeah, there’s actually no time for that because Kent’s – “Fuck, fuck – godda— _Jack_ , I’m gonna come.” – done for, curling onto his side and shaking so hard with it that he dislodges both Eric and Jack with how violently he trembles when he starts to come. He’s at the point of near-hyperventilation when Jack elbows his way back between Kent’s legs and gets him with a stroking-pressing one-two suckerpunch kind of move that makes Kent shout wordlessly until he’s sobbing and shoving at Jack’s hands to get him to stop. A broken, “Ffffffu-u-uck,” and a hissed, “Shit,” leave Kent while he’s panting into the comforter, his mouth leaving a wet spot like an echo to the come he probably just got _all over it, shit_.

“Sorry, sorry,” Kent roughs out, still seeing gray and trying to catch his breath. He’s sucking in a deep gulp of air when his vision finally clears up enough for him to make out Jack’s smug grin from three feet away and Eric’s stunned expression just beyond it.

Eric’s chest is mottled pink and Jack’s got a scratch trailing across his collarbone that Kent probably left and – “Wow.” Kent repeats, “Sorry.”

“Canadians,” Eric breathes, still stunned and –

“I’m _American_ ,” Kent counters. It’s a familiar argument they’ve all three debated, but honestly –

“Holy hell, what are you apologizin’ for?” Eric’s voice is almost shrill. “That was the – hottest thing I’ve – no offense, Jack, but –”

“None taken,” Jack quips, running a hand over Kent’s calf and looking way too smug. (He’s still too sensitive and overheated for touch just yet; it makes him shudder.) “I know.”

“Is it like that every time?” Eric asks, crawling up the bed, twining one hand into Kent’s hair while the other braces against the mattress. “Do ya just –”

Jack says, “Pretty much,” and shuffling up beside Eric. He kind of looms, so much bigger than Eric, and molds himself so perfectly against Eric’s back, covering him. His eyes are so bright as he’s looking down Kent’s body to where his cock is still kind of drooling against his thigh. “Should see it when he’s actually getting fucked, Bitty. One time I –”

“Uh-uh,” Eric says, bracing himself on his forearms as he leans in closer to Kent and – oh, he’s got his eyes on the come that’s smeared all up and down his stomach and thighs. “Story time later, sweetheart, I need ya to fuck me, alright?”

Kent groans.

Jack fumbles away to grab lube while Eric leans in and starts doling out little kitten-licks to the head of Kent’s cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kent practically shouts, thighs giving a mighty twitch, “Fuck. Too much, too much.” 

Eric looks up with those big brown eyes and – fuck, he looks really guilty, but _holy shit_ , Kent can’t handle that just yet. “I’m sorry,” he says, “Did I –”

The cap to the lube clicks shut and Jack’s back behind Eric, saying, “Sensitive prostate, makes him extra…what was it, Kenny?” He’s smirking which lets Kent know that he _knows_ , he’s just being a shit and chirping Kent for something he definitely has no control over.

“Sparkly. And fuck you, Zimms.”

Eric runs his fingers up Kent’s side, making him give another shiver, and smiles softly. “Y’all never moved passed the pigtail pullin’ stage, didja?” Then his eyebrows draw together and he lurches forward; Kent reaches forward to steady him. “Christ Almighty, Jack, just _get in me_.”

Leisurely, Jack presses a kiss below Eric’s ear and squeezes in behind him again, one arm shifting between their bodies while his other hand is curled around Eric’s hip. Kent feels – overwhelmed, for one thing, being able to see this. Being _allowed_ to see Jack’s eyes go hazy as he pushes his way inside Eric, listening to Eric’s hiss of pleasure, watching the way their bodies work together – it’s so much. Kent feels like he doesn’t deserve it; his eyes meet Jack’s over the top of Eric’s head, full of heat and more love than Kent thought possible, and he realizes that _okay, yeah_ , he does deserve this. And more than that: they want this for him.

Kent, finally feeling settled back in his body, kneels up and kisses Jack just beyond Eric, hands cupping either side of Jack’s jaw just to feel that sharpness against his skin again now that he can. Jack makes a noise into the kiss and – no, Kent wants to hear that.

“Yeah, Zimms,” he says against Jack’s lips, soft and sweet. “Wanna hear you.”

Pulling away, Kent slides his hands down Eric’s shoulders and watches his face. Each time Jack pulls back, a crease forms between Eric’s brows, his lip tugged tight by his teeth. Kent leans further down to get at Eric’s mouth, kissing Eric’s lips slack until he’s panting into Kent’s mouth, making tiny whines as Jack grinds in.

Their pace picks up and Kent can’t really maintain the kiss without, like, losing a chicklet or two, so he lies back into the pillows, surrounded by the sight and sound and smell of Jack and Eric. And he’s honestly glad that he does it, because Eric is _not_ a passive bottom. Apparently he’d just been getting used to the stretch or something, because the moment he moves back, Eric’s tilting his hips and then rocking back hard enough to make Jack buckle forward with a groan. 

Kent says, “ _Shit_ , Eric,” without really thinking about it – wondering how in the hell it’s possible to be this turned on directly after coming so hard. He doesn’t know if he can get hard again this quick, but with this sight, it’s certainly worth the effort.

“Harder?” Jack asks, sweat gathering at his temples. 

Eric makes a frustrated noise and then says, “No, pull out –” and then, breathlessly, “Wanna ride you.” 

Biting out a rough, “Fuck,” Kent props himself up with the pillows as they separate and spreads his legs wide to allow for Jack to lie back against him. Once they’re slotted together, Eric wastes no time in straddling Jack’s thighs, his surprisingly muscular legs getting tangled together with theirs before Kent finally spreads his wider while Eric uses his to bring Jack’s together. Kent has a clear view of Eric sinking down onto Jack’s slick cock, feeling the way Jack trembles while Kent snakes an arm down to rub over Jack’s chest. 

There’s this breathless pause where Eric just braces his hands on Jack’s abs, eyes screwed shut and chin tucked to his chest; Kent kind of wants it to last forever.

“Ah, yeah. This is gonna be good,” he says, threading the fingers of his other hand into Jack’s sweaty hair. He can feel the telltale tingles of arousal working their way through his gut and groin too soon, making him want to simultaneously wind his hips back away from Jack’s skin and grind up against it. 

For as much shit as Jack gives Kent about being super sensitive, he’s the one who makes more noise and can’t stay still to save his fucking life. When Eric starts riding Jack – _really_ riding him – he wraps his arms around Kent’s thighs, squeezing and squirming and gasping like he’s double shifting playoff game seven, groaning like he’s dying already. And, _fuck_ , maybe he is. Because Eric’s riding him bare and Kent’s never actually done that before and he wonders if it’s as intense as it looks, that lack of a barrier between them. It even _sounds_ different. Each loud, slick drop has Eric sighing and circling his hips for a more thorough fucking and even Kent can’t stop squirming.

“Eric,” Jack murmurs, hips twitching up into Eric’s rhythm. His nails bite into Kent’s thighs. “ _Eric_.” 

“Holy fuck,” Kent whispers, dropping a kiss into Jack’s sweaty hair.

Over the top of Jack’s head, Kent meets Eric’s eyes and he just – he looks like sheer, devastating sin. His sweat’s putting a little bit of a curl to the hair falling over his forehead, his eyes are blown dark and full of heat, freckles vanished beneath the pink flush covering him from his cheeks down to his belly. The muscles of his chest and arms and legs move in a beautiful, sinuous way that makes Kent feel caught, hypnotized even though he’s got a literal armful of Jack Zimmermann. 

Jack must be feeling it too, though, because not even a minute later, he’s making those desperate noises that used to have Kent reaching around for Jack’s dick, murmuring encouragements and platitudes, making sure that Zimms knew he’d keep fucking him even after he came.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Kent says, dragging his lips against the shell of Jack’s ear while he thrusts up to meet Eric, finally done with the half-stutters and twitches to really give in and _give it_ to Eric exactly the way he’d been taking it for himself this whole time. “Yeah, that’s it, babe – _fuck_ , you guys look so good. _J’pourrais vous r’garder pour toujours_. You’re close, huh?”

“ _Ouais, merde_ – Eric, _Eric_ , please.”

Again, Eric catches Kent’s eye and this time he gives him a nod, a tight little smirk that gets hidden by the way he tosses his head back and bites his lip. 

“Come on, Jack,” Kent says, “look at him. He wants it, wants you to come inside of him. You gonna give him what he wants, Zimms?”

Loud and sharp, Jack sobs and seizes into the feeling, Eric groaning and raking his nails down Jack’s chest as he keeps moving in tight little circles, his cock bobbing in pantomime. It’s incredible to be able to see Jack fall apart like this; it’s _everything_.

Kent rubs his hands up and down Jack’s arms as he goes boneless, and when Kent looks down at where Eric’s still seated on Jack’s dick – and he’s still kind of gaping whenever Eric lifts up and Jack’s cock slips out, looking lube-slick and come-sticky. But then Eric’s crawling up and Jack’s sliding down the bed and – he gets his mouth on Eric’s dick just before Eric wraps his arms around Kent’s neck and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. 

He feels it the moment Eric starts to come, too. He shivers and gasps his way out of the kiss, tucking his forehead against Kent’s neck and burying his sweet, filthy little groan into Kent’s skin. 

Jack shuffles down and out from under Eric, starfished out on the foot of the bed just panting up at the ceiling, gasping like he’s gassed from a double shift and needing a line change. He’s smiling though, this tiny, dazed, self-satisfied thing that Kent’s missed so much. 

Kent’s kind of busy rubbing circles into Eric’s back and pressing kisses into his sweaty hair when he realizes that he’s hard again. He’s sure Eric has been able to feel it for this entire time, but he hasn’t said anything and doesn’t actually make a move to do anything about it until Kent inadvertently grinds up against Eric’s softening cock.

“Oh, my,” Eric says, tiny body giving a jolt. “Ready to go again, huh, darlin’?”

When Eric reaches down between them, wrapping his hand around Kent’s dick, Jack kind of perks up at Kent’s resulting groan, rolling half onto his side and using one hand to push his hair back out of his eyes. “ _Tu t’rappelles quand ch’t’ai fait pleurer? T’étais tellement hyper stimulé. Tu pensais qu’t’allais mourir._ ”

“ _Crisse,_ ” Kent breathes, remembering _vividly_ the time that Jack didn’t stop sucking him off even after he came, hands like vices on Kent’s hips to keep him from thrashing. “ _Ouais, je – je me souviens._ ”

Kent’s kind of hazy on the transition, but suddenly he has both Jack and Eric pressed up against him, Eric still stroking him while Jack clusters kisses on Kent’s cheek and jaw, murmuring dirty Quebecois shit like, “ _J'ai envie d'être à l'intérieur de toi – peut-être , en même temps que lui,_ ” and running his hands down Kent’s chest. His nails catch on the sparse, wiry hairs on Kent’s chest and Eric thumbs at Kent’s frenulum with the perfect amount of pressure and then – Kent’s done.

He’s harshing out a mangled mess of French and English and both Jack and Eric’s names, coming in waves that are tempered by the soothing hands on his chest, the stream of soft reassurances in his ear.

The moment he’s able to, Kent asks Jack, “Didja mean that?”

Jack presses one last kiss to the spot just below Kent’s ear, making him shiver. “Which thing?”

“ _Quand t’avais dit…_ ” Kent swallows and shivers again, clutching a little tighter at Eric’s side, loving him all the more when he just sighs a happy sound and curls in closer. “Both of you inside me.”

Eric stiffens with a surprised gasp, then buries his face into Kent’s ribs. Jack smiles wryly and reaches over to ruffle Eric’s hair. “ _Ouais,_ ” Jack says. “We’d talked about it. Before.” 

And Kent can imagine it: Eric fucking into Jack, whispering about the hypothetical sex they’d have with Kent when it was still nothing more than a far off, hazy hope while Jack filled it in, fleshed it out with memories. Christ. That’s definitely something to think about.

Quietly, Eric says, “Oh, goodness,” and then, “ _Jack_ ,” like he’s gone and told some embarrassing secret.

“What?” Jack retorts, poking at Eric’s ribs with a pointy finger. “It’s true.”

Kent just laughs and tries to shield Eric from Jack – and really only manages to spread even more of their mess of come and sweat all over the bed. And just as he’s about to open his mouth to suggest cleaning up, Eric shouts, “Nose goes,” and, even sluggish from orgasm, Jack’s already touching his nose before Kent’s even realized what’s going on.

Kent sighs; he’s wearing the bulk of the mess, though, so he supposes it’s fair. “Fine,” he says around a laugh. “But I’m gonna shower first. Cheaters.”

But by the time Kent has showered off and made it back into the bedroom with a warm washcloth, Jack’s snoozing and Eric’s nowhere to be found. The sheets are gone and Jack’s still completely bare, the curve of his ass emphasized by the way he’s got one knee hitched up and out to the side. If Kent weren’t terrified of the fallout, he’d maybe try to find his phone and snap a picture. But, yeah, no, instead he gently wipes Jack down and soothes his sleepy grumbles with a kiss and a quiet, “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

After he digs through his suitcase and tugs on a clean pair of boxer-briefs, he goes in search of Eric.

In the warm glow of early evening sunlight, the house looks even cozier than before. Patches of sunlight slip in through the curtains and Kent finds it easy to imagine Princess and KP here, napping and being the lazy little shits that they are. He winds his way through the kitchen and then hears Eric’s humming, the heavy, metallic clang of a dryer door shutting before the beeping signifies the beginning of a spin cycle. Kent finds the source; he leans against the doorway to the laundry room and can’t help but smirk.

He feigns a surprised gasp, “Eric! You’re still _nekkid._ ”

Even as he’s smiling, Eric’s mouth drops open. “I _knew_ you’d make fun of me,” he says. He shoves at Kent’s shoulder just hard enough to dislodge him from his post, but he’s easily accepting whenever Kent tugs him in for a hug.

“Sorry, babe,” Kent says, pressing a kiss to the top of Eric’s head. He still smells like sex and clean, dried sweat. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Uh huh.”

Kent just holds Eric for a minute, happy to finally have him in his arms and filled with gratitude. He breathes out, “Thank you,” and squeezes Eric just a fraction tighter.

“For what?” Eric asks. He’s got his arms tucked into his chest and his eyes are so wide and the most beautiful chocolatey brown that Kent’s ever seen, framed by dark blonde lashes and a smattering of delicate freckles: Kent loves him.

“None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t…” Kent doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence.  
There are a million ways, but none of them sound right in his head. “I just. I love you. And thanks.”

Softly, Eric reaches up to cradle Kent’s jaw and presses a kiss to the bottom of Kent’s chin. “And I love you,” he says, simple as that. He rubs his thumb along Kent’s jawline. “Wanna help me figure out supper?”

“Only if you put on pants.”

Eric smacks Kent in the chest with the back of his hand, scandalized. “That is a _health code violation_ and I would _never_. Especially not in my own kitchen; nothin’s comin’ outta here that wouldn’t pass the most severe of inspections. And to think, I was gonna let you –”

Kent tries to kiss Eric to get him to stop rambling, and really only succeeds in making Eric madder. It’s hilarious, the vibrations of Eric’s words buzzing, tickling Kent’s lips to make him devolve into laughter, Eric giggling too after a second. He finally kisses back, though, so Kent knows he’s forgiven. And it – it gets kind of heated pretty quickly. Eric’s fingers twine into the damp curl of Kent’s hair while Kent hefts Eric up on top of the dryer with his hands gripping the curve of where Eric’s thighs turn into his ass. 

Eric kisses so much differently than Jack. He’s a hell of a lot less shy about demanding what he wants when he wants it, and it’s almost staggering to realize that it’s very similar to Kent’s own style. It’s much less lax than what Kent used to share with Jack, much more teasing and playful and fun. Jack kisses kind of like he’s afraid that he’s asking for too much; Eric kisses like he _deserves_ that too much, and then some. 

They really only slow down when Eric pulls back to breathe, sighing contentedly. Kent kisses his chin and steps back to help Eric hop off of the dryer.

“The first time Jack kissed me,” Eric starts, bending over to grab a pair of boxer-briefs from a laundry basket labeled CLEAN that are _definitely_ Jack’s before he sifts through and finds some that fit much better. After that he gets a Falconers hoodie and leads the way out of the laundry room. “I still couldn’t get it through my mind that he wasn’t straight.”

Eric turns and fixes Kent with a quirked brow.

“Even after you outed him to me,” he continues. “I just. I couldn’t believe it was happenin’, ya know? Like, I’d wanted him since I was an eighteen year old little frog an’ he just – went an’ did it.”

Kent can kind of see where this is going; he fights off a smile. “What’d you say to him?”

“I said, ‘oh, right,’ and he asked me what I meant. And I after I explained it…well. Needless to say, the mood changed a bit and there was talking to be had anyway, so it was probably for the best.” Eric grabs an apron from the affixed nobs near the back door and throws it on over his hoodie, pushing the sleeves up before he grabs for one of the hanging pans above the island. 

While Eric’s busy getting out a frozen chicken and some vegetables, Kent peels back the lid from the bowl housing the cookies and shoves one in his mouth before Eric closes the door to the fridge. 

“I just couldn’t believe he’d want li’l ol’ me,” Eric continues, eyeing Kent in a way that lets him know that _yeah_ , he saw the cookie thievery. “And…Christ, I can’t even tell ya how hard that first year apart was – I was just glad to see him. It was probably a surprise to us both when he kissed me.”

“I remember you telling me about not-dating, but you never really explained that,” Kent offers.

Eric huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and then, “D’ya mind handin’ me a cuttin’ board – drawer to the left of the fridge – thanks, darlin’,” before he continues, “Most trying two years of my life. Saw him on the TV more than I ever did in person an’ he was just so _tired_ all the time. Didn’t have time to talk more’n a couple of minutes every couple of days or so, but he always made time somehow.”

A vague bitterness tries to bite at Kent’s heart, but he reminds himself that his waiting had been a product of his own making. It’s not fair to be jealous of Eric when he’s so giving. Though it takes a few moments, Kent’s able to say, “Must’ve been tough,” without any resentment in his tone.

“It wasn’t anything like the waitin’ you’ve done,” Eric says pointedly.

Kent knows he’s transparent.

“But yeah, it was tough. Graduating in May was the best goddamn thing.” Eric laughs and does something with the knife and veggies that looks incredibly skilled. Kent probably would’ve lost a finger. “But Jack, bless his heart…he proposed before we ever officially got together.”

Snorting, Kent tries not to roll his eyes. “Sounds like Jack.”

“We’d…apparently been on all these dates an’ I had no idea,” Eric says around a giggle. “He came to visit Samwell whenever he could, flew me and a few of the other guys out to games whenever we could swing it, got us good seats at Bruins games when they played ‘em; he came to visit me in Madison-goddamn- _Georgia_ , for Christ’s sake. I might’ve been in love with him, but I was blind as a bat when it came to just about everything involving him.”

Sitting at the bar, Kent has easy access to the cookies. He grabs two more.

“No more,” Eric says, pointing at Kent with the tip of the knife. “Don’t want you spoilin’ your supper.”

Kent mutters, “Sorry,” and then finishes off his last cookie. “So, when you got married, you –”

“Hadn’t even been dating officially for a year, no,” Eric says as he baggies up the veggies. He yawns, covering the stretch of his mouth with the crease of his elbow.

Catching the contagion, Kent yawns too and shivers, wishing he’d had the foresight to grab a shirt before heading off in search of Eric. He watches as Eric pokes at the defrosting chicken, wraps his arms around himself and rubbing to manufacture a bit of heat via friction. “But you were sure?”

“Absolutely,” Eric says with a wide grin, “It’s _Jack_.”

And well. Kent can’t argue with that.

*

Jack stumbles down from his post-coital nap just a few minutes after Eric has started the stir fry that smells like heaven in a wok. Eric’s got the sleeves of his Falconers hoodie pushed up his elbows and Jack’s just wearing a pair of sleep pants and Kent has never been happier in his entire life.

Somehow, this is better than the Stanley Cup.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Eric drawls, accepting the kiss that Jack drops against his temple.

“Why’d you let me sleep so long?” he grumpily grumbles, resting his cheek against the top of Eric’s head. All pressed up along Eric’s back like that, Jack makes Eric completely disappear apart from his elbows. 

Kent snorts and sips at the water he’d gotten himself from the fridge. “Because we wore you out.”

Eric laughs and Kent’s pretty sure he hears Jack muffle something into Eric’s hair that sounds suspiciously like, “Traitor.”

*

Getting spotted is, all things considered, kind of anticlimactic.

Kent decided to tag along with Eric to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to get a new KitchenAid Mixer to tide himself over until the industrial one he’d ordered from some surplus store finally arrived, because this guy bakes _a lot_ , and while they’re on their way back out to the (much more sensible) truck Kent accidentally bumps into a Suburban with the cart. (Really, Eric is the one to blame, doing Canadian accent impressions that are so horribly inaccurate and _hilarious_. Kent was laughing too hard to really watch where he was going.) And apparently it’s hard enough to jostle the goddamn tank, the woman in the front seat looks up and immediately goes to open the door.

“Oh, dear,” Eric says under his breath.

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Shit.”

She’s got fury on her face but – and Kent always feels like Ash Ketchum when he does this – that quickly morphs into stricken awe the moment Kent flips his snapback around.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Kent says, “I should’ve been paying more attention to where I was going.” 

The woman gives a nervous laugh and says, “Oh, no, it’s okay. You’re Kent Parson, right?”

Which, of course, devolves into Kent being painfully polite and taking a selfie with her – and then with her whole brood of kids that pile out of the SUV and start asking questions and talking about their own hockey leagues at a mile a minute. It’s not so bad, especially not with the kids, but the lady had been snapping pictures the entire time. By the time Kent’s said goodbyes and finally headed to the truck with Eric, he’s a little bit exhausted. He’d been enjoying the anonymity. 

“Ten bucks says she just posted those to Facebook,” Kent says, as he’s lugging the mixer into the back.

“No bet,” Eric says. He giggles, and Kent catches him ogling his arms. “There’s no question about that.”

Kent sighs.

*

Summer is the sweetest season in Kent’s humble opinion. It’s full of sunshine and relaxation, the relief that comes with fewer obligations to the organization, the press, the _country_. It’s sweeter still because he’s sitting on the front porch of the Zimmermann residence on a lazy Sunday morning, sipping at a glass of orange juice and watching through his sunglasses Eric moving these adorable little bonsai trees from their plastic buckets to planters that’ll allow room for growth. He’s got a couple of rose bushes that he wants to put in and Kent’s biding his time before Eric asks for his and Jack’s help.

There’s the distant sound of lawnmowers courtesy of a neighbors’ lawn service down the block, sprinklers hissing, and birds chirping.

He’s almost surprised whenever Jack joins him on the porch, screen door slapping shut as Jack shoves a hand into his hair and then drops down onto the swing next to Kent. Pillow creases line his cheek.

“I’ve…I need to talk to you about something,” Jack says seriously, eyebrows furrowed in a way that makes Kent think back to the first time he’d asked Kent for a ride home from practice. “I don’t want you to get mad.”

“Uh,” Kent says warily, “Okay.”

Jack takes a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair again to make it stand up on end. He blinks a few time, looks up and at Eric who’s singing into the end of his shovel and shaking his hips to whatever beat he’s got going. It seems to give him whatever resolve he’d been gathering.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that…” Jack finally says, and then lowers his voice a bit, “Eric and I don’t use condoms.”

Kent tries not to sound too wary when he says, “Yeah?”

“I…we’d like to, uh. Do that with you? If you want, but. We all need to go get checked together before we…do,” Jack says, sounding so painfully awkward. “Until then, uh –”

“ _Crisse_ , Zimms, don’t hurt yourself,” Kent says around the lip of his glass, trying not to snort. He pats at Jack’s thigh and then leaves his hand there. “We can use condoms ‘til then. I don’t care.”

Jack deflates, going boneless all at once as he says, “Oh thank god. _Bien_.” He curls his hand around Kent’s, giving it a squeeze before he twines their fingers together. Kent’s pretty sure they’re hidden by the hedges that come up to the porch railing. If they’re not, then oh well. “I just. I didn’t want to make you feel left out or…like I don’t trust you.”

“You just want us all safe and healthy. I get it.” Kent offers up a half-smile, wishing for all the world that he could just lean in and kiss Jack – 

And that must be written all over his face because Jack murmurs, “Not out here, Kenny.”

“Speaking of…” Kent braces himself with a deep breath. “We’re not going to be public with this, are we?”

Jack shrugs. “I guess that kind of depends on you. Eric and I are…out. Clearly. It’s not as big of a deal as we’d thought it would be when we were kids.” He sighs and goes back to watching Eric. “Papa thought there would be a lot more fallout than there was. Maman was really just mad that she didn’t get to throw a big, elaborate wedding.”

“I hear Mrs. Bittle felt the same way,” Kent says, smile gracing his lips at the memory.

After a gentle chuckle, Jack’s softened features harden up again. “I’m just saying…coming out? It’s worth it when you get to be with who you love. To not have to hide it. Yeah, it’s scary. But it’s worth it.”

Kent gives Jack’s fingers another squeeze and doesn’t say anything.

They sit in silence for a while, both of them clearly just thinking, but then Eric’s calling out to them from where he’s just finished installing the last rose bush. “Hey, are y’all just gonna sit around like lumps on a log, or are ya gonna help me put these tools away?”

Jack immediately stands, saying, “Sorry, Bitty,” while Kent laughs and goes to follow. 

He watches the flex of Eric’s arm as he hands Jack the shovel. “Maybe we just wanted to watch you get all sweaty,” Kent says, accepting the rake and pruning shears before Eric gets the wheelbarrow. 

“Don’t go startin’ somethin’ you can’t finish, Mr. Parson,” Eric says, fixing him with a quirked brow.

“Who says I’m not gonna finish it?”

*

The first time Eric fucks Kent, he cries because he’s also got Jack’s mouth on his cock. It’s a lot of stimulation at once, especially since Eric _really_ knows what he’s doing back there and Jack knows all of the moves that make Kent weak. They don’t actually get around to the whole double penetration thing, but Kent got a sly, “We’ll see,” from Jack when he’d asked about the possibility for it to happen after they get tested.

Which, hey, Kent can take that as an incentive to schedule their first appointment, no problem.

*

Kent had kind of been hoping to live in this blissful limbo of not talking about or thinking about what this next season will bring for at least the rest of June, if not the entire summer. He’d much rather content himself with spending the summer sunning himself with Eric in the backyard, lemonade in hand while Queen Bey plays through the sweet little speaker set up, or cuddling up to Jack to help stave off an errant panic attack, telling him that he’s safe and everything’s okay, or carb-loading courtesy of Eric after he and Jack hit the gym with Jack’s trainers.

But that hope is dashed the moment Kent gets a call from head office, learning about which teammates are being traded and who they’ve acquired as walk-ons after spending the evening watching the Draft with Jack and Eric.

He’d stretched the visit out for a long three weeks, but now duty calls and he’s got a going away party to throw and rookies to welcome.

Once he’s off the phone, Kent’s scrubbing a hand over his face and taking a minute to just breathe.

That’s how Eric finds him. 

“Kent?” he asks softly, face composed of smooth lines of worry. “Everything okay?”

Even though he nods, Kent’s voice sounds completely morose to his own ears when he says, “I have to go back to Vegas.” Years ago, he’d never have thought that he’d ever see that as an unwelcome obligation. He huffs a laugh, dry and bitter. His voice is tiny when he says, “I want to stay here.”

Eric kneels in front of Kent, arms held close to his body as he stares up at him. “You know we want ya to, right?” Eric asks.

“Yeah,” Kent says morosely. 

He looks up when Jack comes in, dishtowel slung absently over his shoulder and looking like he’s on immediate high-alert to see them both looking so down. 

“What’s going on?” Jack asks.

“I need to start looking for flights back to Vegas,” Kent answers. He’s barely talked to Jeff or Rader, but with Nilsy leaving, he’s definitely going to have to talk to Jansser and Petshka, maybe have Bertrand look after them since he’s been needing some new kids to terrorize. He scrubs a hand over his face again. He’d missed a spot while shaving this morning. “There’s a lot of prep work to be done.”

“That’s, uh…”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He really shouldn’t feel so hollow.

“Um,” Jack says, and it sounds shaky enough that both Eric and Kent look up at him. He sighs out a breath and then looks down at his hands. He looks so sad. “I already signed a three-year contract extension with the Falconers.”

Eric’s gasp is really only audible because it’s quiet enough to hear the air conditioning humming, the iHome softly playing country music on the kitchen counter, the stairs settling. Kent’s not surprised though. Jack’s done great things to their team, fleshing out the first line and racking up all kinds of points. Honestly, Kent was kind of surprised they hadn’t gone farther in the playoffs this past season, and he’d be fucking floored if they didn’t the Stanley Cup within the next three.

That’s not to say, of course, that he wouldn’t prefer Jack to sign on with the Aces, come to Vegas, win the Cup with Kent. But. He knew long-distance would be a possibility the moment he believed the words that came out of Eric’s mouth. 

Kent realizes he hasn’t said anything yet whenever he catches sight of Jack’s hands shaking, like he’s bracing for whatever’s going to come out of Kent’s mouth, whether it’s anger or resentment or frustration. But Kent’s not any of those things. If anything, he’s resigned.

Jack flinches whenever Kent stands, steps around Eric, but he doesn’t try to stave off the hug that Kent doles out. Kent hugs Jack tightly, temple pressed to Jack’s clavicle, arms wrapped around his waist. Slowly, Jack hugs back and the trembles fade until they’re just standing there, clinging to each other.

“We’ll still try to see each other as often as possible. After that, we’ll…reevaluate,” Kent says, voice muffled, and then, “ _Je t’aime et j’aime Eric. On va y arriver ensemble_. Just like you said, eh?”

Eric becomes a gradual, but solid weight against Kent’s back, arms wrapping all the way around Kent’s middle to clutch at the sides of Jack’s shirt, fingers stressing the cotton. Kent feels more than hears Eric’s, “I love you, too, Kent. Wish this were easier.”

*

At least the goodbye sex is hot.

*

Picking up Princess and KP from boarding is pretty much the only thing Kent’s looking forward to, and even that is sullied by the fact that his cats are assholes and want nothing to do with him once he gets them home.

From there, it’s a whirlwind of phone calls and creating events in his calendar, letting both Eric and Jack know that he made it home safely, training, training, training, PR events, setting up catering services and securing a massive order of booze from his favorite liquor store. Kent sends the details to Kelly and hopes that she’ll forward everything to all the guys on the team and the front office. It’ll be a casual thing, but something that Kent’s pretty sure she’ll want to put on the team Twitter or something.

By the time Saturday rolls around and everything is set up, Kent’s absolutely not expecting it when the first person to ring his doorbell – _way_ too early to be anyone from the team – is Eric Zimmermann. Kent blinks to make sure that he’s not hallucinating.

He’s got an armful of grocery bags. And a rolling suitcase.

“Uh,” Kent says intelligently.

A tiny, sly smile creeps onto Eric’s mouth. “Well, c’mon, you’ve got hands to help, don’tcha?”

It’s hardly been a week, but the amount of relief that floods Kent’s chest makes it feel like it’s been months. He doesn’t notice crossing the threshold and scooping Eric up, grocery bags and all, but he does relish the breathless laugh that rings out, the lingering scent of Jack’s body wash, the way Eric squeaks and says, “Put me down!” Kent doesn’t, doesn’t know if he _can_. Leaving was so fucking hard.

“I’ve missed you,” Kent says into Eric’s hair. 

Again, Eric laughs. His cheeks are dusted with a subtle pink whenever Kent finally lets his feet touch the foyer floor. “Goodness, I’ve missed you, too.” His little biceps are still flexing with the bags, so Kent gathers half of them and leads the way into the kitchen where the catering company dropped off a shitload of sides that supposedly won’t break their meal plans. “Saw your, ‘dessert or nah?’ Tweet,” Eric says, “An’ with Jack headed up to New York for that media tour, I figured I might as well solve that dilemma for ya. Thought maybe I’d –” Eric cuts off with a delicate gasp, and Kent looks up, immediately looking for what’s wrong; seeing Eric with a hand clutched to his chest is mildly worrying. “You have _two ovens_.” 

Kent laughs nervously, relieved that his kitchen passes Eric’s inspection. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I had the house built knowing I’d, uh. Well.”

Eric’s hands come up to cup Kent’s cheeks, eyes so wide and brown and serious as can be when he says, “You are so precious.” He leans up, and Kent meets him halfway. It’s a chaste kiss. (Nothing like their rushed, goodbye; this is a hello.) His voice is soft, knowing, when he says, “Thinkin’ ‘bout our kids, huh?”

Choking out a little laugh, Kent says, “Yeah.” He shivers, unable to control it. “God, I can’t wait.”

“Yes, you can, darlin’,” Eric says, stepping back to start rummaging through his grocery bags. “Now, I know you’ve got company comin’ soon, an’ I want to get started on this sorbet for y’all so it’ll be ready come supper time.”

Eric is a little drill sergeant in the kitchen, ordering Kent around and not afraid to look or ask for what he needs, like this is already his home away from home. Kent would be content to just watch it – and it makes him envision Eric in the double-breasted chef coat, sleeves rolled tightly against his forearms as he chops and kneads and dices and, whatever else it is that chefs do, calling out orders and bossing his sous chefs around – but Eric isn’t one to allow for idle hands in his kitchen.

Apparently Kent doesn’t know proper chopping technique. Or, at least, it’s not up to Eric’s standards.

“Kent, honey, please,” Eric says, gesturing for Kent’s knife.

And, well. Kent doesn’t really get the hang of it because he’s too busy just watching Eric’s hands. He faintly says, “Can you show me again?” and tracks the sinuous movement of muscles and veins beneath Eric’s skin as he smoothly maneuvers the nectarine into neat little hunks, separated into piles that probably make perfect sense to him. 

Kent only looks up when Eric stops – and belatedly realizes that Eric is saying something.

“Reckon you’ll wanna see that again,” Eric says drily, with his free hand he shoves at Kent’s hip. “I give up. Think you can at least measure out some sugar for me?”

Nodding, Kent says, “Yeah, I can do that. But you’re fucking me later.” 

Eric barks a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. He says, “We’ll see about that,” but it sounds flirty, making anticipation settle in a low simmer in Kent’s gut.

It’s not too hard to use the back of a knife to level out the scoops of sugar, but Kent just fucks with Eric for the sake of it. Eric’s just so cute when he’s frustrated, being all bossy.

The doorbell rings and Kent has a moment of panic, but then he remembers how he’d been blabbing his whole life story to his teammates, how they already know he’s in love with this guy, how it wouldn’t be a bad thing to introduce Eric to them (but it might be a bad thing to introduce them to Eric, the assholes). He says, “I’m gonna go…get that,” to Eric, who’s sliding the bowls into the freezer one-by-one. 

Eric give a lilted, “Alright, darlin’.”

Taking a deep breath, Kent loosens his shoulders and goes to answer the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Up next: JACK ZIMMERMANN, ERIC BITTLE, AND KENT PARSON WITH BABIES. Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com).


End file.
